MOONS 

OF 

GRANDEUR 

WILLIAM  ROSE 
BENET 


MOONS   OF   GRANDEUR 
WIILLAM  ROSE  BENET 


MOONS 
OF  GRANDEUR 

A  BOOK  OF  POEMS 


BY 
WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 


NEW  XHr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1920 
BY  GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

TO 
HENRY    MARTYN   HOYT 

Remembering  1906-1920 


4405-i?; 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

FOR  permission  to  reprint  here  a  few  of  the 
shorter  poems  included,  the  author  thanks  The  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  Harper's  Monthly  Magazine,  The 
Yale  Review,  The  Bookman,  The  Delineator,  Ains- 
lee's  Magazine,  The  Munsey  Magazine,  The  Touch 
stone,  Romance,  The  Seven  Arts,  Poetry,  Contem 
porary  Verse,  and  The  Bowling  Green,  New  York 
Evening  Post. 


CONTENTS 

GASPARA  STAMPA 11 

"  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  INIQUITY  "   .        .         .  15 

LEGEND  OF  MICHELOTTO 24 

THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN     ...  29 

IL  MORO  IN  LOCHES 32 

NICCOLO  IN  EXILE 40 

RENEGADE 42 

BOURBON'S   LOVE 45 

THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN      ...         .52 

MICHELANGELO  IN  THE  FISH-MARKET  .        .  74 

BAST 75 

THE  SUN  GAZER 76 

THE  QUEEN'S  IDYLL 83 

THORSTAN'S  FRIEND 93 

THE  BALLAD  OF  TAILLEFER   ....  96 

ON  EDWARD  WEBBE,  ENGLISH  GUNNER          .  103 
THE  PRIEST  IN  THE  DESERT  .        .        .        .104 

EUGENIE'S  SOLITAIRE        .         .        .                 .  109 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION         ,  i      .  113 

THE  SILVER  BALLOON     .        .        .        .        .  125 
THE  MASTER  OF  THE  FLYING  CASTLE     .         .126 

DUST  OF  THE  PLAINS 130 

THE  RACE 132 

THE  VOYAGE 135 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

ALONG  THE  EMBARCADERO       ....      145 

THE  CITY 147 

WHEN  THE  CATERER  SANG  OF  His  WEDDING     150 
METAMORPHOSIS — NOT  IN  OVID      .        .         .152 

THE  HERETIC 154 

THE    LONELY 155 

ENIGMA 157 

RENCONTRE 158 

THE  PHILOSOPHER 160 

FRIENDS 162 

To  MY  FATHER 164 

TRICKSTERS        .        .        .        .        .        .        .168 

BEING  CURIOUS         .        .        .        .        .        .169 

O'CONNOR'S   CAFE    .        .        .  .        .170 

MENAGERIE .171 

FROM  SPARTA 172 

THE  FOIL 173 

CHARLES  DARWIN 174 

NIGHT  175 


[viii] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


MOONS 
OF GRANDEU& 


GASPARA  STAMPA 

"  Saffo  de'  nostri  tempi  alta  Gagpara" 

VENICE — CINQTJECEXTO 

"  I  burned,  I  wept,  I  sang;  I  burn,  sing,  weep  again, 
And  I  snail  weep  and  sing,  I  shall  forever  burn 
Until  or  death  or  time  or  fortune's  turn 
Shall  still  my  eye  and  heart,  still  fire  and  pain." 

LIKE  flame,  like  wine,  across  the  still  lagoon 

The  colors  of  the  sunset  stream. 

Spectral  in  heaven  as  climbs  the  frail  veiled  moon, 

So  climbs  my  dream. 

Out  of  the  heart's  eternal  torture  fire 

No  eastern  phoenix  risen — 

Only  the  naked  soul,  spent  with  desire, 

Bursts  its  prison. 

O  love,  magnificent  and  dreadful  love 
At  last  consuming  heart  and  brain, 
Palling  all  days  with  thoughts  we  weary  of, 
Weary  of  pain, — 

[in 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Gaspara  Stampa   [CONTINUED] 

O  golden  city  set  in  the  sun's  heart, 

Isled  in  a  golden  sea, 

Yet  what  a  vague  phantasmal  counterpart 

Of  what  Di'ght  be, 

Darkness  comes  down  upon  your  domes  and  towers, 

Dark  gondolas  gliding  under  evening  bells. 

Deep  night  spreads  burning  over  faded  hours 

The  hell  of  hells. 

The  shadows  mock  me  with  his  step,  his  sigh. 

The  treacherous  tapers  flare 

And  flaw;  but  though  I  stare  with  burning  eye 

He  is  not  there. 


Collalto,  my  illustrious  lord,  it  is 

So  strange!     One  word,  one  sign 

Would  turn,  like  Cana's  metamorphosis, 

These  tears  to  wine, 

Wine  from  my  heart — or  shall  my  blood  be  shed 

To  seal  the  crumpled  scroll, 

Who  gave  you  living,  who  would  give  you  dead 

Body  and  soul? 

Capitals,  columns,  arches,  sculptures  fall, 
The  ivy  crawls  on  Istrian  stone; 
Tower  and  palace,  chapel,  drawbridge,  all 
Time  leaves  prone; 
[12] 


GASPARA  STAMPA 

Gaspara  Stampa   [CONTINUED] 

Only  our  Alps  whose  blue  without  one  stain 
Blends   into   higher   light — 
My  namesake  stream  of  the  Trevisian  plain — 
Time  finds  bright. 

Yet  will  not  Time,  kind  to  the  Paduan,  scroll 

My  name  at  last  with  yours 

Vittoria,  Veronica?     If  the  soul 

Of  song  endures 

I  grasp  eternity.    O  barren  bliss 

Beside  pomegranate  flowers 

Swayed  in  the  moonlight,  and  one  secret  kiss, — 

Bliss  once  ours. 

For  France  is  far,  so  far,  my  dearest  lord, 

Beyond  the  Alps  so  far,  men  say, 

One  little  word,  even  one  little  word 

Loses  its  way. 

Is  it  not  piteous  then  to  die,  to  live 

In  death,  to  gasp  unheard 

In  thirst  unslaked  for  what  one  word  could  give, 

One  little  word? 

And  for  a  faith  to  tread  consuming  heat 
And  for  a  love  to  look  on  death 
And  to  go  robed  in  fire,  in  fire  complete, 
With  sharp-drawn  breath, 

While  the  trapped  heart,  grown  frenzied  with  its 
pain, 

[13] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Gaspara  Stampa  [CONTINUED] 

For  joy  once  scorning  fate 

Storms  with  wild  wings,  again  and  yet  again, 

Your  iron  gate? 

The  gods  returned  to  earth  when  Venice  broke 

Like  Venus  from  the  dawn-encircled  sea. 

Wide  laughed  the  skies  with  light  when  Venice  woke 

Crowned  of  antiquity, 

And  as  with  spoil  of  gems  bewildering  earth 

Art  in  her  glorious  mind 

Jewelled  all  Italy  for  joy's  rebirth 

To  all  mankind. 

And  we  were  heirs,  true  bounden  heirs  of  this 

Epoch  of  glittering  life  and  bannered  love 

Even  as  we  whispered  in  our  earliest  kiss 

The  joy  thereof, 

Ere  sunlight  on  a  condottiere's  lance, 

A  bitter  trumpet  blown 

Scattered  your  words  and  swept  your  heart  toward 

France, 
Left  me  alone. 

The  hyssop  on  the  reed,  this,  this  to  drink 
In  this  dark  hour  shall  seal  it  as  the  last. 
No  word,  my  lord — and  no  more  thoughts  to  think 
When  this  is  past. 

Titian  awhile  his  garden  walk  may  tread 
And  Sansovino  keep 

My  words,  words  you  may  read  when  I  am  dead, 
But  I — would  sleep. 
[14] 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  INIQUITY  " 


"  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  INIQUITY  " 

In  the  wild  days,  in  the  wild  days  when  all  Ro- 

magna  lay 
Blood-soaked  by  the  ferocity  of  Borgia,  loosed  on 

Italy, 
One  woman  faced  him  to  the  last — for  that  was 

Catherine's  way! 

THE  dawn  of  a  new  century  crept  over  Forli  town. 

White  and  immaculate  fell  the  snow  on  the  be 
siegers,  camped  below; 

And  Catherine  from  the  parapet  of  her  battlements 
looked  down. 

The  moonlight  over  Forli  town  lit  up  the  trampled 
plain, 

The  enemy's  camp,  each  street  and  square  spat 
tered  with  blood.  And  high  in  air 

Catherine,  with  chin  on  breast,  looked  down,  and 
reckoned  up  the  slain. 

Her    captains    and    her    engineers    stood    in    the 

shadows,  still. 
Mournful   and   pale   the   cold   moonlight   gleamed 

upon  ramp  and  tower  that  night, 
But  troubled  not  the  Countess*  brows,  knit  by  the 

Sforza  will. 

[15] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 

A  month  of  beating  off  assault  since  Imola  flamed 

and  fell 
And  the  town's  signory,  craven  then,  flung  wide 

the  gates  to  Caesar's  men, 
Though  Catherine  lashed  them  with  her  scorn,  and 

held  the  citadel. 

Here   was   no    soft   and    feeble   flesh — Lucrezia's 

golden  shame. 
Here  stood  a  woman  steeled  in  grief,  ravaged  by 

sorrows  past  belief, 
A  condottiere's  bastard  born,  who  bore  the  Sforza 

name. 


"On  such  a  night  as  this,"  she  thought     "The 

infamy  came  to  pass 
When,  as  the  carded  flax  took  fire,  three  poigniards 

flashed  upon  my  sire 
And  the  Duke  Galeazzo  fell,  slain  at  Saint 

Stephen's  mass." 

"  On  such  a  night  as  this/'  she  thought,  her  thin 

lips  tight  with  pain. 
"  That  apostate  priest  who  blessed  the  bread 

whereon  the  assassins'  blood  was  shed 
Watched   for  the  ending  of  their   work   done   in 
Saint  Stephen's  fane !  " 

[16] 


"  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  INIQUITY  * 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 

"  Yet  Caesar,  Valentino,  mark  my  single  purpose 

here! 
Whatever  may  be  dealt  or  done,  I  walk  within  the 

steps  of  one 
Who — though  he  sowed  and  reaped  much  shame 

— was  never  known  to  fear. 


"  They  wed  me  to  a  scurvy  hound  called  richest 
prince  in  Rome, 

Who  sought  Lorenzo's  overthrow — that  brave,  su 
perb  Magnifico ! — 

The  loutish  clown  Riario,  clerk  in  his  uncle's  home ! 


"  Yet   his   foul  deed  in  Florence  done,  with  the 

base  Pazzi's  aid, 
Shows   not   so   ill   as    fratricide,    whence    Naples, 

Caesar,  spurned  your  pride! 
The   Repetta's   bargeman   knew  what  deed  made 

that  dark  night  afraid! 


"  Under  a  shuddering  sickly  sun  they  brought  the 

corpse  to  shore; 
And  terrible  bestial  sounds  of  woe  came  screaming 

from  Saint  Angelo 
Where  Alexander  frothed  in  pain  and  clawed  upon 

the  floor. 

[17] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 

"  Remorse,  in  full  consistory,  he  vowed — white  lips 

a  foam, — 
Repentance — ashes  on  his  head  !     .    .    .    But  living 

lust  forgets  the  dead, 
And  Giulia  Bella  sways  him  still  at  the  old  game 

in  Rome. 


"  With  fifteen  thousand  Papal  troops  you  dare  all 

duchies  then, 
The  mercenary  Swiss  brigade  and  Louis'  lancers  for 

your  aid? 
Shame  of  the  Purple,  monster  Duke,  lay  on — bring 

up  your  men! 


"  I  have  surmounted  many  a  death,  ere  this  risked 
all  and  won: 

Ten  years  of  plot  and  counterplot,  rebellion,  mur 
der,  hate  grown  hot — 

So  now  I  trust  no  broken  reed — be  it  my  elder  son. 


"  When  rebels  rose  at  Imola  and  killed  the  castel 
lan, 

Think  you  I  flinched?     I  rode  all  night,  though 
great  with  child.     The  morning  light 

Saw  me  still  pacing  forth  and  back  before  their 
barbican. 
[18] 


"  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  INIQUITY  ' 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 

"  O  Feo  said,  '  Tread  not  within !     Their  swords 

are  out  to  slay ! ' 
But  '  Come — alone — to  parley  here ! '  they  cried. 

I  entered  without  fear. 
They  groveled  ere  one  hour  had  passed.     Theirs 

was  none  other  way. 

*r  I  faced  the  ride  back :  sixteen  miles.    I  clung  the 

saddle-horn. 
A  ruddy  mist  before  mine  eyes  mile  after  mile 

would  dance  and  rise. 
The   hoofs   jarred    'Home!*      The    hoofs    jarred 

'  Home ! '    .   .   .    Next  day  my  child  was  born. 

"  You  Arab  bastard  of  the  Pope, — by  the  Blood, 

what  do  you  here? 
Yonder  in  Rome  your  father  plays  with  topaz, 

purple  chrysoprase, 
Carbuncle  and  pink  Indian  pearl,  half-slavering 

o'er  such  gear! 

"  I  saw  your  eyes,  Caesar,  your  lips'  full  scarlet, 

your  bronzed  skin 
Under  your  velvet  bonnet  doffed.     Aye,  with  an 

evil  smile  you  scoffed. 
But  Prince  of  Darkness  though  you  be,  your  siege 

shall  never  win !  " 

[19] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 

She  lifted  eyes  and  saw  the  stars  bright-glistering 
on  the  night. 

She  turned  and  strode  among  her  peers,  her  cap 
tains  and  her  engineers, 

Into  the  castle,  and,  flambeau-lit,  wound  down  the 
stair's  steep  flight. 

And    like    pale    rose    the    New    Year     dawned. 

More  furious  the  attack 
Leapt  up  without.     She  sate  within,  grinding  her 

teeth.    "  You  shall  not  win!  " 
In  the  stone  hearth  the  red  sparks  danced  against 

the  chimney-back. 

See  only!    Was  she  girl  again,  entering  the  People's 

Gate; 
In  gold-embroidered  cloak  arrayed,  in  crimson  satin 

and  black  brocade, 
'Mid  festooned  flowers  and  censers  swung,  riding 

through  Rome  in  state? 

To  grand  Saint  Peter's  riding  slow — her  marriage 

day  in  Rome! 
The  vision  wavered  on  the  air.     Then,  suddenly 

and  vivid  there, 
She   saw   against  the   arrassed   wall — a   different 

coming-home. 

[20] 


"  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  INIQUITY  ' 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 
Stiffening   silent   into   stone,   her   green-blue   eyes 

looked  through 
The  wall — and  saw  the  gala  floats,  and  heard  the 

populace  split  their  throats 
While  the  artillery  salvoes  boomed.     In  prophecy 

she  knew 

The  Borgia's  captives  passing  slow  by  that  same 

massive  gate, 
To  crown  his  triumph.    A  glimpse  of  gray  yonder, 

the  broad  Flaminian  Way 
Stretched  o'er  the  flat  Campagna — north.    Escape? 

Alas,  too  late! 


For  on  her  wrists  what  fetters  clanked!    Her  wild 

eyes,  anguish-full, 
Gazed  up,   and  drooped,   as   wearily   in   that   fell 

triumph,  and  heavily, 
She  trod — the  last,  least  slave  of  all — a  hostage 

to  the  Bull! 


41  No !  "    She  sprang  up.    "  A  sortie  then — at  once ! 

That  shall  not  be !  " 
Great  shadows  writhed  upon  the  wall.    She  shouted 

for  her  seneschal, 
Paced   with  ground  teeth,  and   knew   her   life   in 

hopeless  jeopardy. 

[21] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 

They  burned  the  great  carved  wainscot  even,  be 
fore  the  breach  was  made. 

She  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sack;  turned  on  the 
tower-stair,  beaten  back, 

And,  for  an  instant,  wavered  there — most  desolate 
and  afraid. 

Then,  straight  recovered,  proud  she  rose.     "  God 

knows  what  this  may  mean. 
But  since  I  stand  at  last  at  bay,  we  all  die — 'tis 

the  only  way !  " 
And  she  dispatched  two  trusted  men  to  fire  the 

magazine. 

They  heard  the  dull  concussion  boom;  but  pre 
science  stifling  speech 

Warned  them  of  failure,  through  the  din,  and  that 
the  foe  swarmed  on  and  in 

Trampling  along  the  corridors  through  one  more 
widening  breach. 

So,  in  the  moated  tower,  at  last  the  Borgia  strode 

to  find 
That    perilous    matron,    stony-pale,    standing   like 

stone, — nor  might  prevail 
By  words,  until  two  skulking  braves  pinioned  her 

from  behind. 

[22] 


"  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  INIQUITY  " 

"  The  Daughter  of  Iniquity  "  [CONTINUED] 

And  Yves  d'Allegre  could  tell  of  her  black  year 

deep  underground, 
Starving,  for  fear  in  cell  to  sup  lest  sweet  white 

powder  in  some  cup 
Dispatch  her;  sleepless,  lest  she  be  a  corpse  in 

Tiber  found. 

Florence  could  tell  what  wrongs  were  wrought  on 

a  woman  chained  and  lone 
Living  the  death  beyond  the  dead.     "  For  there 

be  things,"  she  sometimes  said, 
"  That,  an'  I  told  them  simply  true,  would  turn 

the  world  to  stone." 

So  be  it.     I  know  she  raised  one  son  strong  as  her 

will  was  strong; 
That   the   Black   Bands    in  time   became   through 

Italy  a  sign,  a  name 
Wherewith,  and  with  their  leader's  fame,  Romagna 

echoed  long. 

In  the  wild  days,  in  the  wild  days  when  the  Bull 

gored  Italy , 
Through  black  mischance  and  heavy  grief,  a  woman 

held — beyond  belief 
Against  the  Borgia's  power  and  pride,  one  small 

lost  seigniory! 


[23] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


LEGEND  OF  MICHELOTTO 

So  it  befell,  because  the  times  were  hard, 

This  Michelotto,  Captain  of  the  Guard, 

Nigh  to  Cord  Lane,  in  a  vile  drinking  den 

Lingered  the  last  of  Caesar  Borgia's  men, 

Having  found  beyond  Viana,  in  the  vale, 

That  stripped,  stark  blood-laced  body,  prone  and 

pale, 

Fixed  eyes  and  wolf-teeth  glittering  to  the  stars. 
Thus  last  he  saw  the  Duke.     So  from  all  wars, 
All  coil  of  camp  and  court,  he  fled  Navarre 
To  live  at  hazard  by  the  outlier's  star 
Scornful  of  every  faction — old  and  grim. 

This  was  a  night  when  musing  fell  on  him, 
Secret  in  Rome,  strayed  lately  from  the  sea. 

Sprawled  on  his  lousy  pallet  it  seemed  that  he 
Was  multiplied  in  forms  around  the  room 
Where  on  the  floor  a  lantern  made  the  gloom 
Even  more  invading  by  its  little  light. 
Some  fifteen  Michelottos  were  that  night 
Regarding  him  from  all  sides  of  his  bed. 
He  clutched  again  the  wineskin,  and  his  head 
Turned   slow   each   way;   his   eyes   revealed   their 
whites. 
[24] 


LEGEND  OF  MICHELOTTO 

Legend  of  Michelotto   [CONTINUED] 

This  was,  perhaps,  one  of  his  troubled  nights, 

For  suddenly  that  raped  Venetian  bride, 

Caracciolo's,  crouched  by  his  bedside 

With  hair  dishevelled,  eyes  glaring  wildly  round. 

One  feels  it  discommoding  that  the  drowned 
From  Tiber  rise  and  walk,  and  come  thus  late; 
Nor,  boy  Astorre,  should  you,  smiling,  wait 
Blue  by  that  window-grate  the  moon  shines  through. 
Those  emaciated  wraiths  that  crowd  round  you 
Forget  how  kindly  you  were  used  anon. 

"  Ecco !    These  two  were  vilest.    Smilest  ?    Smilest 
Thou — thou — or  thou,  mine  image?     Fiends,  be 
gone!" 

Thus,  elbow-raised,  the  gulping  sbirro  cries, 
His  coarse  dark  hair  fallen  tangled  in  his  eyes. 

He  turned  again.     His  hand  groped  for  the  wine. 
There  gleamed  the  poigniard-hilt  'twixt  neck  and 

spine 

Driven  home.     It  quivered  yet.     Ah,  how  the  wan 
Forehead  blood-smeared  and  dark  eyes  of  this  man, 
The  wried  mouth  gaping  to  its  gurgling  cry, 
Called    back    the    Ghetto   midnight.    .    .    .    How 

they  ply 

Dagger  on  dagger,  till  heavily  he  falls! 
Sparks  flit  from  flints.     Beneath  the  bagnio  walls 
Wheels  the  white  charger,  champing  at  his  load. 

[25] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Legend  of  Michelotto   [CONTINUED] 
Truly,  not  thus  a  Captain  General  rode 
Ere  this  through  Rome! 

So  Gandia;  let  us  hope 

That  Don  Giovanni,  captain  to  the  Pope.     .    .    . 
But  no,  he  glimmers  yonder  by  the  wall. 
He  bears  the  head  that  was  so  swift  to  fall 
By  that  backhanded  blow. 

The  head  smiles  too ! 

The  Borgia's  will  it  was  to  run  him  through 
Because  his  wife  was  soft  and  weak  of  will. 

As  for  the  poisoned  sleepers,  how  they  fill 

The  earth-floored  lean-to — many  in  their  throes. 

The  Mantuan  archbishop,  I  suppose, 

Is  he  who  lies  the  straightest,  Giacomo's — 

The  protonotary — is  the  stiffest  pose. 

Gian  the  cardinal  looks  his  pained  surprise.    .    .    . 

The  sbirro  shook  his  mane,  strained  limbs  to  rise, 
Sank  back — and  entered  Don  Alfonso's  room. 

High-ceiled,  that  great  apartment  in  the  gloom, 
Save  for  the  burning  brazier,  swarmed  with  night. 
The  strangler  with  the  bowstring  craves  no  light 
However,  and  the  fixed  imperious  glance 
Of  the  cloaked  Duke  precludes  one  look  askance. 
Wail  of  all  wails — 0  wail  that  rings  forever! 
[26] 


LEGEND  OF  MICHELOTTO 

Legend  of  Michelotto   [CONTINUED] 

Veined  eyeballs  starting,  with  a  huge  endeavor, 

This  Don  Michele  Coreglia  heaved  upright. 

Lying  or  sitting  'tis  no  better  plight 

Even  with  the  palms  pressed  tight  against  the  eyes. 

Ramiro  in  Cesena  square,  the  cries 

Of  the  rebels  in  their  dungeon,  beasts  at  bay ! 

Red — as  the  hands  press  eyeballs — red  as  they 
Who  fell  at  Capua — is  the  swimming  light. 
The  shrieking  of  the  nuns  upbraids  the  night — 
Or  is  it  ghastly  singing,  far  away: 

All  the  power  of  earth  and  heaven 

You  were  given! 
Borgia ,  swords  in  Our  Lady's  heart 

Are  sharp,  are  seven: 
Poigniards  plunged  to  the  bloody  hiltf 

Red  daggers  driven! 

"  Yet/'  groaned  this  Michelotto,  swaying  now 
Upright,  one  arm  across  his  streaming  brow, 
His  bare  feet  shuffling  on  the  earthen  floor, 
"  Yet,  thou  dark  man,  I  shall  not  see  thee  more, 
King  of  these  kakodaimons — but  a  king! 
Ah,  Caesar,  Satan,  sire,  if  this  one  thing 
Should  pass — that  thou  couldst  rise  from  earth  and 
tell    .    .    .!" 

[27] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Legend  of  Michelotto  [CONTINUED] 

A  voice  spoke  then.    A  voice  said  "  Is  it  well 

To  summon  weary  shadows  out  of  Hell?  " 

In  armor  red  as  blood  he  stood  revealed 

The  golden  lilies  quartered  in  his  shield. 

The     outstretched     hand — oh     grisly     strangest 

thing ! — 

Flashed  with  the  sapphire  cardinalitial  ring. 
Three-pointed  flame  licked  up  from  foot  to  head. 

So  Michelotto,  with  the  dawn,  lay  dead. 


[281 


THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN 


THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN 

THERE  lived  a  lady  in  Milan 
Wrought  for  a  madness  unto  Man, 
A  fawn  II  Moro  could  not  tame ; 
Her  beauty  unbedecked  with  pearls 
More  than  all  Beatrice's  girls, 
Her  eyes  a  secret  subtle  flame. 

Brocade  wherein  her  body  dressed 

Was  hallowed;  flowers  her  footstep  pressed 

Suspired  incense  ere  they  died. 

Her  father  mazed  with  alchemy 

Wrought  in  his  cellar  ceaselessly. 

She  lived  in  quiet,  gentle  pride. 

And  by  her  garden  in  his  hour 
Passed  Leonardo,  come  with  power 
From  Florence.     So  he  saw  her  face 
Bending  above  the  shriveled  stalks 
Of  autumn  on  the  garden  walks. 
And  Leonardo  drank  her  grace. 

She  was  as  if  a  sunset  were 
With  fresher  colors,  clearer  air, 
And  a  more  golden  coil  of  cloud. 

[29] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

There  Lived  a  Lady  in  Milan   [CONTINUED] 

She  was  as  if  all  citherns  swooned 
With  one  rich  harmony  myriad-tuned, 
Haunting,  enchanting,  pure  and  proud. 

And  Leonardo  said,  "  Ladye, 

I  know  not  what  you  do  to  me 

Who  have  and  have  not,  seek  nor  find. 

The  sea-shell  and  the  falcon's  feather, 

Greece  and  the  rock  and  shifting  weather 

Have  taught  me  many  things  of  mind. 

"  My  heart  has  taught  me  many  things, 
And  so  have  emperors,  popes,  and  kings, 
And  so  have  leaves  and  green  May-flies ; 
Yea,  I  have  learned  from  bird  and  beast, 
From  slouching  dwarf  and  ranting  priest. 
Yet,  in  the  end,  how  am  I  wise  ? 

"  Though  with  dividers  and  a  quill 
I  weave  some  miracle  of  will, — 
Say,  that  men  fly, — though  I  design 
For  peace  or  war  a  thousand  things 
Gaining  applause  from  dukes  and  kings, — 
Though  soft  and  deft  my  colors  shine, 

"  Though  my  quick  wit  breed  thunderbolts 
I  may  not  loose  on  all  these  dolts, 
Things  they  are  babes  to  comprehend, — 
Though  from  the  crevice  in  stone  or  lime 
I  trace  grave  outlines  mocking  Time, — 
I  know  when  I  am  beaten,  Friend ! 
[30] 


THERE  LIVED  A  LADY  IN  MILAN 

There  Lived  a  Lady  in  Milan  [CONTINUED] 
"  Say  that  there  lived  of  old  a  saint 
Even  Leonardo  dared  not  paint, 
Even  Leonardo  dared  not  draw, — 
Too  perfect  in  her  breathing  prime 
For  colors  to  transmit  to  time 
Or  quill  attempt, — aye,  €v'n  in  awe ! 

"  Say  this,  cold  histories,  and  say 
I  looked  not  on  her  from  this  day 
Lest  frenzied  I  destroy  my  art. 
O  golden  lily, — how  she  stands 
Listening!     Beauty, — ah,  your  hands, 
Your  little  hands  tear  out  my  heart ! 

"  Do  you  not  know  you  are  so  fair, 
Brighter  than  springtime  in  the  air  ? 
What  says  your  mirror  to  your  mind  ?  " 
"  Phantom,"  she  whispered,  "  Do  you  plead 
With  ghostly  gestures?  .    .    .  Ah,  indeed, 
Pity  a  lady  deaf  and  blind 

"  Since  birth !  "  .   .   .  Then  Leonardo  turned 

Saluting,  though  the  sunset  burned 

In  nimbus  round  her, — went  his  way 

In  daze,  repeating  "  God's  defect, 

Even  he  ! — and  masterpiece  elect !  " 

He  never  saw  her  from  that  day. 


[31] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


IL  MORO  IN  LOCHES 

OH  sly  and  subtle  light !    There !    At  this  hour, 

As  ever,  you  gleam  and  linger.     So  I  thrust 

This    parchment   hand    of    mine,    whose    withered 

power 

Mocks  me,  straight  through  your  moted  golden  dust. 
Warm!     It  is  warmth  the  pores  feel,  warmth  that 

lingers 

So  brief  a  space!     Stiffly  I  twist  my  fingers, 
Shuddering  to  stand.    Again  my  crayon  marks 
Where   now   you    quiver,   cleaving   my   dungeon's 

darks. 

Light !    Fading — fading — ah,  at  last  'tis  gone ! 

Only  this  twilight  now,  by  which  I  read 

My  book  of  Heaven  and  Hell ;  and  so  am  drawn 

Up  through  the  nine  concentric  heavens  indeed 

Into  the  Empyrean, — yet  dashed  no  less 

Through  the  nine  circles  of  Hell's  wretchedness. 

Certes,  th'  abyss  of  wailing  gripes  on  me 

"  Mute  of  all  light,  and  bellowing  like  the  sea." 

Yea,  Florentine !    And  mouthing  shades  are  driven 
Across  my  vision,  where  none  their  God  may  name. 
Through  inky  air  Francesca's  form  has  striven, 
[32] 


IL  MORO  IN  LOCHES 

//  Moro  in  Loches   [CONTINUED] 

Speaking      thy      words,      streaming      discolored 

flame   .    .    . 

Thy  words  I  traced  here  on  the  stone,  slow,  slow 
In  anguish:  that  "  there  is  no  greater  woe 
Than  the  remembering  in  misery 
Of  the  glad  time  " — those  words  that  stifle  me ! 


For,  ah !  the  face  is  not  Ravenna's  now. 

'Tis  Isabella,  with  eyes  that  burn  and  burn. 

"  Those  injured  souls !  "  Dante,  you  cry.    You  bow 

Your  face  .    .    .   Diavolo!     I  my  face  in  turn 

Bow  in  my  shaking  hands.    Aragonese, 

Begone!     He  sickened  by  natural  disease. 

My  nephew  was  not  murdered.    .    .    .    There  were 

things 
Of  state — alliances — and  French  kings! 


She  imputes  poison.    Bice,  do  you  hear? 
Her  ghostly  hands  hold  up  a  poisoned  fruit. 
In  Pavia's  castle  grounds  the  leaves  are  sere. 
The  sun  hangs  red.     .    .    .     You  guess  what  you 

impute, 

Sorceress  ?     Come,  recall  your  weeping  paries 
With  that  gap-mouthed  and  gargoyle-nosed  King 

Charles, 

The  drivelling  idiot  who  mocked  your  pains 
And  sickened  a  spirit  still  so  proudly  Spam's! 

[33] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

II  Moro  in  Loches   [CONTINUED] 

"  Murder,  murder,  most  foul  and  secret  murder, — 
Evil  most  foul  even  for  times  most  foul !  " 
Again  ?  again  ?     How  often  have  I  heard  her 
By  day,  by  night,  like  some  soft  hooting  owl 
Circling  my  cell  in  unsubstantial  flight 
Through    the    long    night,    the    ghastly,    dreadful 

night  ? 

Begone,  I  say!     Gesu!    As  soft  as  lace 
The  death-owl's  wings  are  fluttering  in  my  face. 

So !    Bring  malvasia !    Wine — wine  tonight ! 
Wine,  and  some  woman's  voice, — Cecilia's  voice, — 
Or  my  Lucrece,  the  ferrionera  tight 
Across  her  perfect  brows,  and  there,  for  choice, 
A  yellow  Orient  pearl  silkily  glistening; 
Half-pouted  lips,  as  though  her  soul  were  listening 
To  some  far  music.     .    .    .     But  the  shadow  falls, 
As  ever,  around  me  from  these  mouldy  walls ! 

Gloomy  as  galleries  where  the  sentries  standing 
With  flickering  lanterns  saw  me  wildly  fly 
That  New  Year's  night,  leaping  from  stair  to  land 
ing 

To  Bice's  tower-room.     The  leaden  sky 
Without  snowed  peacefully.     In  the  great  hall 
Courtiers  and  harlots  whirled  in  festival 
To  passionate  music.     But  the  page  had  said, 
"  Her  Grace  is  dying !  "    I  feared  to  find  her  dead. 
[34] 


IL  MORO  IN  LOCHES 

//  Moro  in  Loches   [CONTINUED] 
All  artful  pomps  that  my  Bramante  wrought 
With  Leonardo, — shows  and  dazzling  lights, 
Feast   and    display, — flashed    from   my   anguished 

thought. 

Bice  was  dying!    Dio!    That  night  of  nights; 
The  babe  still-born;  the  monk  with  cross   down- 
bending  ; 

The    weeping    women;    "  Vico,    this    is    the    end 
ing.    .    .    . 

Forgive  me,  Vico!  "    Bice,  do  thou  forgive 
Me !    For  thy  words  are  poigniards  while  I  live, — 

Poigniards  that  turn  and  turn  in  the  old  wound. 
Yea,  I  am  tricked,  sanctissima,  and  sold 
To  Satan,  though  God  was  with  me  as  I  swooned 
Through  the  black  days  when  first  your  corpse  was 

cold. 
Jennet    and    greyhound    mourned    you    in    those 

hours.    .    .    . 

And  how  my  city  of  the  hundred  towers 
Once  welcomed  in  your  gorgeous  cavalcade, — 
And  all  Milan,  decked  as  for  masquerade! 

I  met  you  with  my  knights.    You  shone  with  pearls. 
Heralds  made  martial  music  on  our  ride.     .    .    . 
Brocades  shake  forth,  the  Viper  flag  unfurls, 
At  the  Castello  I  lift  you  down — my  bride ! 
And  how  you  flew  the  falcon,  tracked  the  fawn, 
Wild  elf-girl,  rippling  canzons  to  the  dawn, 

[35] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

II  Moro  in  Loches   [CONTINUED] 

Or,  through  the  heat,  your  gilded  tresses  dried 

Atop  your  villa  by  the  green  water-side! 

Ferrara's  fairest — and  both  the  sisters  fair, 
The  crown  and  kingdom  of  Duke  Hercules ! 
In  aureate  satin  and  checlatoun,  how  rare! 
Yet,  in  mere  tags  and  rags  rare  as  in  these ! 
Bice,  you  know  I  wed  Cecilia  then 
To  Bergamini.     .    .    .    Yea!     But  men  are  men. 
"  Merito  e  tempore  "  ?    Naught,  naught,  I  know. 
But  I  have  suffered,  and  life  would  have  it  so. 

I  know  all  that  they  whisper,  all  they  shout ; 
My  brother  Galeazzo's  evil  fame.     .    .    . 
Yet,  turn  to  the  Visconti,  if  you  doubt 
Others  were  worse  than  bore  old  Muzio's  name ! 
Matteo  the  Ghibelline  ?     Time  makes  him  vague. 
What  of  Gian  Galeazzo,  that  the  plague 
Well  ended, — Gian  Maria,  who,  past  all  bounds, 
Tortured  dumb  beasts,  fed  human  flesh  to  hounds? 

When  my  sire  came,  the  Lombards  blundered  blind. 
Filippo  tricked  them  as  he  tricked  my  sire. 
The  Ajnbrosian  Republic  out  of  mind 
Put  Naples  and  Venice,  when  the  people's  fire 
Later  burned  hottest.     But  the  Sforza  saw, 
Fought  for  the  leadership  and  formed  the  law! 
Demos  will  always  babble  "  Bought  and  sold !  " 
My  brother  was  a  match  for  Charles  the  Bold. 
[36] 


IL  MORO  IN  LOCHES 

11  Moro  in  Loches   [CONTINUED] 

Cruelty?    Aye!    Then  Simonetta  came 

With  smooth  conspiracies.    What  was  the  League  ? 

We  stood  for  Naples.    Oh,  you  bicker  "  Shame !  " 

We  matched  intrigue  with  justified  intrigue. 

The  Pazzi  war?    But  I  was  Bari  soon, 

Playing  to  Bona  a  seductive  tune 

At  the  meet  time.     It  oped  the  garden  door. 

So  endeth  Simonetta — shines  the  Moor! 


We  were  the  first  Greek  printers,  and  my  court 

Led  art  in  Italy.     The  wild  French  claims 

Answer  the  rest.     Oh,  intrigue  of  a  sort! 

One  is  not  chary  in  a  house  in  flames, 

And  such  all  Italy  was  then :  the  Pope 

And   Naples,  and  this  one's   plot  and   that  one's 

hope. 

Bah !    Was  Trivulzio  better  ?    The  people  saw ! 
"  Viva  il  Moro !  " — for  I  gave  them  law ! 


Car'dossa,  Bellincione, — match  them  then! 
Ambrogio  de  Predis, — all  the  best, — 
But  Leonardo  most,  that  man  of  men, 
Though  he  complained  I  never  gave  him  rest.  . 
I  bend  to  Time  and  listen,  and  I  hear 
Such  murmur  as,  through  that  Dionysius'  ear 
His  craft  contrived  for  me,  the  clamor  grew 
From  far-off  rooms.     This  clamor  quickens  too. 

[37] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

II  Moro  in  Loches   [CONTINUED] 
They  shout  him  with  one  voice,  his  second  sight, 
His  great  "  Cenacalo,"  his  marvelous  line, 
Contours  absorbed  as  in  a  mist  of  light, 
Colors  blent  as  by  magic.     .    .    .    He  was  mine! 
Made  clockwork  monsters,  labyrinths, — or  in  turn 
Lectured  my  sages  past  their  power  to  learn, — 
Wrought  armament  or  masque  beyond  all  prize, 
Horsed  my  great  father,  limned  Lucrezia's  eyes ! 

Make    hubbub,    Time!    ...    Ah,    Schattenhalb, 

vile  Swiss, 

Again  your  fingers  twist  me  round  to  see, — 
Passing  beneath  the  pike.     You  leer,  "  But  this — 
This  is  no  priest.     Bring  shackles !     This  is  he!  " 
La  Tremouille  smiled.     So  was  Novara  taken 
Through  Alpine  traitors,  and  all  my  splendor  shaken 
About  my  ears.     And  now  I  rot  and  rot 
In  this  vile  tomb.     They  feign  to  know  it  not. 

They  are  so  suave,  these  French!      And   Borgia 

ramps 

Abroad,  and  Florence  raves  as  when  that  priest 
I  hated  so  stirred  all  to  warring  camps ; 
And  here  this  Louis  spills  tournament  and  feast 
About  the  land,  betrothing  his  dear  daughter. 
Venice  and  Genoa,  by  either  water, 
Suffuse  his  eyes  with  tears  of  simple  greed.     .    .    . 
And  Maximilian  still  has  time,  indeed.    .    .    . 
[38] 


IL  MORO  IN  LOCHES 

//  Moro  in  Loches   [CONTINUED] 
Who  was  that  gay  Burgundian  ?    Ah,  Commines ! 
That  was  at  Asti,  when  I  met  King  Booby. 
A  sharp-eyed  noble !     Indeed  the  man  had  been 
Months  in  this  very  fortress.    What  a  ruby 
Galeazzo  gave  him  once  at  the  Castello! 
They  say  he  has  retired,  the  clever  fellow, 
To  write  his  memoirs.     As  I  hear  it  reckoned 
Best  wits  agree  he'll  be  Plutarch  the  Second. 

Weariness !     All  my  thoughts  are  weariness. 
They  bring  me  food?     They  serve  me  with  such 

care! 

Even  allowed  me  friends  in  my  distress 
Once.    Yet  they've  grown  much  stricter  with  fresh 

air 

Of  late.    And  so  all  that  I  have  to  do 
Is  arabesque  these  walls  with  P  and  Q 
And  pictures  to  drive  Leonardo  wild, — 
Twist  on  my  pallet,  and  babble  like  a  child. 

The  Sforza  blood  in  me  is  sapped  indeed! 
Was  this  the  Moor — this  once  my  arrogance  ? 
See,  my  mouth  dribbles.     I  quiver  like  a  reed. 
Indeed  I  think  the  oubliettes  in  France 
Can  cap  Milan's.     "  The  Condottiere  laughs 
And  with  his  sword  writes  blood-red  epitaphs !  " 
So    once    I    trolled   the    soldier-song.     .    .    .    Ah! 

Keys! 

Well,  Messer  Scowl,  what  viands,  if  you  please  ? 

[39] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


NICCOLO  IN  EXILE 

THE  wineshop  smells  of  grapes!     Castruccio, 

I  thirst!     Ah,  and  a  salutation  now 

To  thee,  good  miller !    Ha,  bland  Ambrosio, 

Thou  golden  butcher, — the  heat  hath  marked  thy 

brow 

Red  as  thy  beeves.    News  ?    By  the  Blood,  I  vow 
'Tis  not  '  good  day,'  but  ill,  for  not  a  springe 
Within  my  little  wood,  beneath  the  bough, 
Hath    caught    one    wren.      Crops?      By    an    old 

wound's  twinge 
I  think  'twill  rain.     The  cards!     Aye!     Pour  the 

wine! 

Faugh,  but  the  pack  is  greasy, — yet  'twill  serve ! 
(So  I  forget  his  face,  Duke  Valentine, 
And  slacken  fortune's  fardels,  nerve  by  nerve, 
From  off  my  mind.    .    .    .     I'll  let  the  sunset  shine 
Full  in  their  eyes,  my  fingers  swift  to  swerve.) 

He  cheats!    Yea,  I  cry  cheat!    I  saw  that  one! 
Nay,  peace,  Ambrosio,  with  that  doughty  roar, — 
Merely,  next  time,  eschew  the  crudely  done ! 
Have  I  not  been  Borgian  ambassador? 
Peace !    Let  me  tell  how  Heliogabalus  swore 
Once  on  a  time.    .    .    .    Nay,  seat  thee;  hark  the 
humor ! 
[40] 


NICCOLO  IN  EXILE 

Niccolo  in  Exile   [CONTINUED] 

Chutt,  miller,  what's  a  small  coin  less  or  more  ? 
As  for  the  old  Etolians,  they  rumor.    .    .    . 
Rare  drollery,  eh?     I'faith,  a  few  days  since 
That  quaint  folk-custom  gat  an  illustration : 
My  swineherd's  wife.    .    .    .     (New  chapter:  How 

a  Prince 

Should  cater  to  the  Vile  for  reputation ! 
Yea,  murderer  of  Ursini  and  Vitelli, 
Borgia,  still  might'st  thou  learn  of  Machiavelli !) 

So,  at  this  last,  good-night !    Nay,  I  must  home. 
Good-night ! 

What  misty  moonlight !    There's  the  spark 
Of  fitful  fireflies.    Fields  are  not  like  Rome 
Where  steel  strikes  glittering  out  from  alleys  dark, 
Sunlight  discovering  the  white  and  stark 
Body  of  grief.    No,  fields  are  friendly  faring 
For  velvet  Secretaries.    Far  watch-dogs  bark, 
But  flower-scents  rise,  and  I  enjoy  my  airing. 
So  to  the  ancients  home,  and  home  to  thee, 
Soft  Marietta!     That  man  all  falls  above 
Is  set  who  hath  for  his  indemnity 
Against  fate's  ravage,  two  treasures,  books  and  love. 
That  butcher  can't  play  cricca.    I  fleeced  him  then. 
As  for  the  stratagems  of  those  oven-men — / 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


RENEGADE 

II  Quattrocento 

WITH  rumbling  cannon,  rippling  pennon  and  hal- 

berts  bright  in  the  sun 
On  war's  way — god  Mars'  way 
The  clamorous  armies  roam. 
Hot  destriers  shake  their  manes  and  ramp  at  rumor 

of  siege  begun 
And  high  carracque  and  galleasse  swing  towering 

through  the  foam. 
Venice  is  out  with  all  her  fleets,  the  Borgia's  never 

slept  in  sheets 
This  long  while,  this  wrong  while,  this  black  and 

villainous  tide, — 
But   drunk    with   wine    of    June    today    from    all 

Romagna  I'm  away. 
Up,  up   through   oak  and   ilex  grove  to  lose  the 

world  I  ride. 


Put  faith  in  your  misericorde,  in  parchment,  rack  or 

rope 
Or   wind   your   horn   beyond   the   Alps   to   march 

against  the  Pope, — 

[42] 


RENEGADE 

Renegade   [CONTINUED] 

God  of  the  sun,  who  made  the  moon  drip  golden 

honey  such  nights  in  June, 
What  dark  hearts,  these  stark  hearts, — how  lost, 

how  lost  to  hope! 

They're  staggering,  brawling  through  their  camps. 

Their  torches  splash  the  stones 
With  red  gleams,  with  dread  gleams 
Where  blood  pools  deep  the  mire. 
Their  captains  bellow  bawdy  songs  to  drown  the 

dying's  groans 
And  every  southern  vineyard  glints  an  evil  bivouac 

fire. 
Yea,  Sforza,  dream  you  hold  Milan — Este,  Fer- 

rara, — if  he  can; 
Let   every  tyrant  sweat  and  curse   and   plot  and 

fume  and  rage; 
Far,  far  above  you  toward  the  moon  my  gelding 

climbs  this  night  in  June 
To  find   and  pluck  the  golden   rose,  to   clasp  an 

heritage ! 

O  joy  that  never  your  whole  endeavor  of  plots  and 
wars  could  win! 

For  soft — there — aloft  there,  through  glimmer  of 
falling  bloom — 

A  light  that  shines  through  tangled  vines,  a  star 
the  dusk  within, 

The  porch  of  even,  the  door  to  Heaven, — a  shep 
herd's  wattled  room; 

[43] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Renegade   [CONTINUED] 

A  face  for  memories,  soft  dark  hair,  bright  eyes 

to  heal  the  heart! 
(O    roar   your   victories,    boast   your    pomps    and 

grasp  your  golden  prize !) 
Here — moonlight  lies  along  the  floor.     O  love,  and 

here  thou  art, 
Sacred  and  ghostly  in  the  gloom  as  summer's  slow 

moonrise ! 

This  still  night,  this  strange  night,  its  mystery  so 

deep 
That   far   away  the   chaos   fades,  the   summoning 

drums  are  gone 
As  still  I  lie,  and  only  hear  her  breathing  in  her 

sleep 
While  high  in  heaven  the  silent  stars  shine  on — 

shine  on — shine  on. 


[44] 


BOURBON'S  LOVE 


BOURBON'S  LOVE 

AT  Monza  is  the  Iron  Crown 
That  tempted  France  to  Lombardy, 
And  Valentina  of  Milan-town 
Nestled  among  the  fleur-de-lis 
The  crested  Viper;  and  the  wine 
Of  lore  and  art  in  Italy 
Lured  on  the  line  called  Angevine 
Between  Vesuvius  and  the  sea. 


Louis  the  Spider  held  aloof 

From  the  new  sorceress  of  the  south; 

But  wittold  Charles  would  put  to  proof 

His  claim,  and  Naples  kissed  his  mouth 

A  bitter  kiss,  a  rueful  kiss, 

Whence  the  twelfth  Louis  gat  no  bliss 

Since  the  Great  Captain  scourged  him  thence 

And  Ferdinand  dropped  all  pretense. 


The  King  of  England  took  to  wife 
An  aunt  of  Charles  the  Emperor 
New-risen  in  a  world  of  strife 
With  kingdoms  than  all  kingdoms  more 
From  Flanders  unto  far  Peru, 

[45] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Bourbon's  Love   [CONTINUED] 

With  Spain  and  Germany  thereto. 

The  Great  Child  took  the  throne  of  France 

And  there  was  bloody  work  to  do. 

Montpensier  was  the  greatest  lord 
Of  all  his  realm.     Saint  Louis'  blood 
Ran  in  his  veins.     The  folk  adored 
The  Lord  of  Bourbon.     He  withstood 
For  France  and  Francis  many  a  foe. 
Louise  of  Savoy  brought  him  low, 
At  last,  to  sequestrate  his  lands, — 
A  jilted  harlot,  frenzied  so. 

Her  "  Caesar  "  wore  the  crown  at  last. 
She  served  him,  with  her  Marguerite. 
The  bitter  strife  with  Anne  was  past. 
She  left  an  empire  at  his  feet 
Since  Marignano  shot  the  skies 
With  blazing  portent,  gaudy  dyes. 
Mother  and  son  were  made  of  lies 
And  Bourbon  met  them  as  was  meet. 

This  only  tells  what  surmise  tells 
Of  a  most  desperate  soul, 
Since  beneath  courtly-gilded  shells 
Most  furious  oceans  roll, 
And  all  stands  not  on  history's  page. 
For  men  are  molded  by  their  age 
But  lose  their  loves  and  gnash  and  rage 
Withdrawn  from  out  the  whole. 
[46] 


BOURBON'S  LOVE 

Bourbon's  Love   [CONTINUED] 

"  You  shall  be  false  and  I  be  true/' 

The  Marguerite  of  Marguerites 

Sighed  to  great  Bourbon  in  a  dream 

As  his  war-steed  forded  a  stream 

In  Italy,  and  drowsy  grew 

His  brain,  with  marches  and  retreats. 

"  And  yet — such  dark  and  tangled  thread 

Love  weaves  to  gold,  through  dearth  and  dread !  " 

Fate  clasped — then  struck  their  hands   apart. 

To  Francis,  king  of  lechery, 

His  royal  sister's  loyal  heart 

Clove,  despite  lies  and  treachery. 

But  Bourbon's  pride  could  not  abide 

At  last  his  grim  mischance. 

His  sword  was  thrust  in  Bayard's  side, 

As  it  was  fated  to  betide, 

When  his  sword  turned  on  France, 

Yet  he  turned  sword  against  his  lord 

And  fought  for  Charles  of  Spain. 

His  destrier's  back  became  his  home. 

(A  second  Alaric  at  Rome 

You  read  his  hated  name 

In  history!)     But  do  you  see 

Her  face  that  left  him  never: 

The  Valois'  Pearl,  the  star  of  France, 

Whose  wondrous  pilgrims  to  Senance 

Live  on  in  prose  forever? 

[47] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Bourbon's  Love   [CONTINUED] 

She,  who  could  write  with  jeweled  pen 

The  intrigue  of  her  time, 

The  light  and  shade  and  colors  all, 

The  languor  and  the  festival, 

The  bloodshed  and  the  grime, — 

She,  faithful  to  that  swine  of  self, 

Francis,  men  should  have  slain, — 

Aye,  even  to  standing  to  his  lie, 

The  blackest  one  in  history, — 

Knew  she  not  Bourbon's  pain? 

She  saw  the  panache  of  his  plumes, 

The  glitter  of  his  greaves 

And  cuisses,  'gainst  the  paneled  wall 

Where  truly  stood  no  man  at  aH; 

Or  through  the  arbor  leaves, 

Where  only  sun-motes  danced  in  gold, 

She  saw  his  darkling  eyes, 

His  heavy  casque.     He  spurred  his  steed 

Down  a  dark  valley,  equerried 

By  death  in  royal  guise. 

Meanwhile  the  Admiral  Bonnivet, 
Who  would  have  brought  her  down, 
Made  leg  at  mirrors,  flung  his  fling, — 
He  who  lost  Francis  everything 
Through  gross,  half-witted  flattering 
At  siege  of  Pavia-town. 
[48] 


BOURBON'S  LOVE 

Bourbon's  Love   [CONTINUED] 

But  Bourbon  spurred.     She  dreamed  he  heard 

Her  voice  say,  low  and  clear, 

With  thrilling  trust  in  every  word 

She  breathed  against  his  ear: 

"  One  thread  throughout   the   dark   design, — 

One  fiery  thread — your  love  and  mine!  " 

0  love  indeed — to  throb  and  burn 
In  that  most  thwarted  hour! 

In  proud  Toledo  or  Madrid 

1  think  it  was  not  always  hid, 
While  Francis  lay  in  tower. 

A  glance,  a  handclasp,  and  the  thought 

Of  Amboise  and  their  youth 

Come  back — the  glittering  Loire  below, 

St.  Hubert's  chapel,  all  the  glow 

Of  days  when  there  was  truth 

Before  the  Regent  asked  her  price — 

She  and  Du  Prat,  her  snake, 

Who  laid  the  rack,  who  turned  the  vise, 

And  watched  the  proud  heart  break! 

Though  Bourbon  strode  the  Roman  road 

He  fell  in  silvered  mail, 

In  days  of  dark  antiquity 

'Fore  walls  of  soft  iniquity 

He  was  not  born  to  scale. 

The  weak  Pope  chattered  in  his  tower; 

[49] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Bourbon's  Love   [CONTINUED] 
And  history  turns  wroth 
And  brands  the  Condottiere's  shame 
And  sets  him  side  by  side  in  fame 
With  Alaric  the  Goth! 

But,  as  he  stood  within  his  tent 

The  night  before  the  sack, 

As  his  dark  brows  in  anguish  bent 

On  his  accursed  track 

South  and  still  south,  and  what  it  meant, 

Borne  by  his  starved  wolf-pack, 

Until  great  Rome  in  moonlight  lay, 

Whence  none  might  turn  them  back, — 

There  as  he  stood,  she  seemed  to  stand 

Just  past  the  torches'  light, 

With  darkness  upon  either  hand 

And  nothing  but  the  night. 

"  Transfiguring  still  the  whole  design, 

One  thread  of  gold — your  love  and  mine!  " 

So  the  embattled  halberdiers 
Stirred  where  they  bivouacked. 
Across  the  camp  the  sleeping  spears 
Murmured  if  aught  attacked. 
A  restless  presage  fanned  the  camp 
At  love's  last  ghostly  call. 
War-horses  whinneyed  all  astamp. 
Stars  trembled  over  all. 
[50] 


BOURBON'S  LOVE 

Bourbon's  Love   [CONTINUED] 

And  Bourbon  raised  his  arms  and  said, 

"  It  is  the  end,  my  friend. 

Ah,  Marguerite,  when  I  am  dead, 

I  may  have  love  to  spend 

Who  here  had  only  hate  to  wreak, 

My  dear,  my  only  dear! 

Press  then  your  cheek  against  my  cheek 

And  set  your  bosom  here !  " 

Upon  his  brow  a  warm  breath  seemed, 

Seemed  arms  about  his  neck. 

His  head  bowed  forward  as  he  dreamed 

Beyond  all  battle-wreck, 

Past  Marignano,  Pavia,  or  any  earthly  victory, 

Some  strange  unravelling  of  knots, 

Of  the  world's  plots  and  counterplots, 

Hint  of  Time's  valedictory; 

For  on  his  heart  she  seemed  to  rest 
Where  poor  Suzanne  had  lain ; 
And  there  was  peace  within  his  breast 
And  peace  within  his  brain.     .    .    . 

While  Love  stood  singing  at  the  loom, 
Weaving  forever  dreams  and  doom! 


[51] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

To  Frances  Rose  Bentit. 

DARK — all  is  dark  and  cold!     No  light  is  here 
Save  this  the  candle  in  my  helmet  gives, 
The  paper  helmet  of  an  old,  old  soldier 
Who  toiled  at  trench  and  earthwork  on  the  heights 
Of  Florence    ...    it  was  very  long  ago. 
And  now  I  chip  and  chisel  through  the  dark, 
This  sputtering  goat-fat  taper  on  my  head, 
In  a  cold  gloomy  house  of  rats  and  spiders 
Off  Trajan's  forum. 

Almost  two  years  back 
The  Council  passed  upon  my  wall  design 
To  stop  the  infection  from  that  filthy  pit 
Beneath  the  column,  made  when  Paul  the  Third 
Demolished  round  its  base,  and  excavated 
To  the  old  forum's  level.     Of  course  they  still 
Do  nothing.    And  they  dare  to  say  that  I 
Procrastinate  over  the  dome  of  Peter's! 

Ugh!     The  miasma's  round  me  like  a  mist. 

Night.     The  Campagna's  ruined  aqueducts 
Shine  in  the  moon;  the  Coliseum  lies 
Ghostly  and  white  under  the  sky  of  March ; 
But  there  is  stir  in  Rome.     Young  Giovanni 
[52] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan  [CONTINUED] 

Comes  to  be  Cardinal.     This  nepotismo 
Flourishes    still.      I    can    hear    them.      "  Palle ! 

Palle!" 

The  coaches  and  the  horsemen  and  the  crowds 
That  quiet  a  little  now.     I  have  not  stirred 
For  the  new  pomp;  I  hear  them  in  my  mind. 
How  many  times !     Laborious  life  creeps  on 
Under  the  riot  and  the  pageantry, 
The  war,  the  jubilation,  and  the  waste. 

Yet  Night  remembers  Day,  for  Day  knew  how, 

Affianced  of  the  sunlight,  tristfully 

She  came  along  the  cloisters;  or  we  paced 

Among  the  piazza's  soaring  colonnades ; 

Or  in  the  garden  of  San  Silvestro  sat 

On  a  stone  bench  against  an  ivied  wall 

In  shade  of  laurel  bushes — Rome  beneath. 

She  like  her  juniper,  inviolate  ever 

In  claustral  peace  from  all  encircling  storms, — 

With  the  white  vision  of  the  great  church  redeemed 

Borne  in  her  breast,  and  Pavia's  sharp  disaster 

An  old  dulled  pain !     Yes,  a  great  general, 

Faithful  till  death — yet  with  no  faith  for  her 

Who  could  have  raised  him     .    .    . 

Ah,  now  my  bitter  heart 

Like  some  strange  heavy  fruit  submits  itself 
To  the  grinding  pestle  and  colander  of  God 
Whence,  crushed,  bled  forth  and  strained,  a  thin 
small  wine 

[53] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 
Of  sacred  numbers  drips!     I  gird  myself 
For  heron-patience  unto  the  agony's  end. 
My  Adorata,  my  sibyl  from  that  isle 
Of  oleanders,  Ischia  in  the  sea, 
Where  once  old  Epomeo's  mountain-height 
Guarded  your  singing  soul!     You  also  bore 
The  weight  of  this  interminable  life, 
Suffered,  endured,  and  conquered  at  the  last. 

Yes,  I  am  very  old.     I  have  known  it  all; 
All ! — the  great  edifice  that  seems  in  dreams 
To  rise  divine  out  of  the  mind  of  man 
Till  its  proportions  shoulder  back  the  sun, 
The  ideal  grandeur.     Ah,  so  to  build,  and  be 
Some  conquering  Brunelleschi  of  the  soul's 
Magnificent  cathedral,  domed  and  lanterned 
With  gold  stolen  from  God !    Yet,  as  she  taught, 
Comparing  Love  to  an  entablature 
That  we  had  pored  on  once  amid  the  ruins: 
(While  I  supplied  her  terms  of  architects!) 
Passion's  the  cornice,  nobility  the  frieze, 
Humility  the  architrave  whereon 
All  rests — a  strong,  erect  humility   .    .    . 
So  apse  and  aisle  and  nave  of  the  soul's  church 
Must  breathe  that  spirit,  where  the  last  is  first. 
Humility    .    .    .    how  knaves  misunderstand 
The  slandered  term !    I  have  raged  my  life  awry 
In  art's  own  passionate  humility. 
But  to  whom  among  these  little  mouthing  men, 
[54] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

These  harassing  insects  of  my  everyday, 

Needs  must  I  yield  ?    To  Nanni  ?    He  who  yearns 

To  be  chief  architect, — that  fool  who  plots 

So  childishly  against  me?     Three  years  back 

The  old  JEmilian  Bridge  they  snatched  from  me, 

(Puling  that  kindly  they  would  spare  my  age 

The  imposition — and  my  over-caution!) 

Why,  three  years  back,  in  the  next  inundation 

It  laughed  at  yokel  Nanni's  strengthening 

And  strewed  his  mock  foundations  on  the  flood. 

Have  men  no  minds?     There  were  great  spirits 

once. 

Some  I  have  seen — one,  never  seen,  have  known: 
The  man  who  hated  tyranny,  as  I; 
The  true  republican,  as  I  have  been; 
The  immortal  spirit,  as  I — could  never  be. 

As  where  high  mountains  form  their  watershed 
Disparting  equally  the  rains  of  heaven, 
So  Dante's  spirit  soared,  and  so  baptized 
His  friends  or  enemies  with  lucific  song 
Pouring  from  the  steep  summit  of  his  soul. 

But  me  they  shackled  to  a  sepulcher 

All  my  life  long, — Popes,  pesterers,  Cardinals, 

Dukes  of  Urbino! 

Forty  statues  planned, 
As  many  basso-relievos  to  be  cast 
In  bronze,  and  four  facades — a  mausoleum 
Truly  heroic.     For  my  reproach  eternal 

[55] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

Sits  Moses  in  Saint  Peter's  of  the  Chains. 

What  though  Mantova  cried,  "  Why,  this  alone 

Does  superb  honor  to  his  memory !  " 

When  the  thrice-changed  contracts  dwindled  to  the 

last; 

Six  statues  down  to  three;  when  Raffaello 
Of  Montelupo,  for  fifteen  hundred  ducats, 
Had  wrought  his  prophet,  sibyl,  and  Madonna, — 
And  Maso,  the  Pope  on  the  sarcophagus, — 
And  bad  art  crowned  my  single  inspiration 
Achieved    through    all    the    thwarting    years'    de 
rision, — 

I  felt  the  heart  within  me  sink  like  stone, 
Though  the  chapel  waited  my  great  Judgment,  and 
"  Now,"  they  cried,  "  you  are  free !  " 

They  say  the  Jews 

In  Rome  have  flocked  to  look  upon  their  leader, 
Speechless  with  adoration,  praising  me.     .    .    . 
Though  evil  rumors  insinuate  themselves 
Through  chinks  in  my  mind's  armor,  such  as  one 
That  leers  "  Why,  'tis  the  Ludovisi  satyr 
Transferred  to  marble !  " 

But,  Dio  mio !  who  heeds 

Thorn-crackling  such  as  that?     Let  them  go  to 
And  bask  in  II  Perugino's  cow-like  masks, 
Who  mistaught  Raphael;  nay,  'tis  the  same 
Old  threadbare  charge  I  know  not  fair  proportions, 
Grace  as  they  understand  it!     They  know  not 
[56] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

That  life  is  agony.     "  Too  much  anatomy !  " 

Yes;  Yes  indeed;  Verily;  only  I  groan 

To  think  upon  such  grandeur  as  I  planned 

Eked  out  with  gimcracks.     Free?     I  turned  away 

From  final  contemplation  of  the  Moses 

Drowned  in  despair. 

A  lifetime's  span  ago 
I  climbed  a  spur  of  Etruscan  Apennine 
Above  Carrara,  where  we  worked  the  quarries 
Like  mad  eight  months  for  marble    .    .    .    fifteen 

years 

Ere  Leo  drove  me  from  the  Carrarese 
To  Pietrasanta,  and  the  angered  servants 
Of  Marquis  Massa,  and  the  mariners, 
Blocked  all  my  ships  from  Genoa  to  Pisa, 
Forced  me  to  turn  road-builder  in  the  end 
And  bridge  the  swampy  plains  with  driven  piles — 
Whence  I  fell  ill  at  Seravezza  there, 
The  Arno  shrank  and  dried,  my  columns  broke, 
Consigned  to  Florence ;  and  how  I  cursed  the  Tomb, 
Always  that  gray  colossal  incubus !     .    .    . 
But  my  mind  wanders.     I  was  thinking  of 
My  thirtieth   year,   that   day   I   stood   and   gazed 
From  the  mountains  above  Carrara  across  the  blue 
Ligurian  Sea.     Far  down  below  me  wound 
A  road,  with  silly  miniature  white  oxen 
Hauling  their  load.    The  whip-crack  of  their  driver 
And  his  voluble  voice  were  little  diminished  sounds 

[57] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 
Through  the  still  noon.     The  puffy  drifting  cloud 
Moving  along  the  road  seemed  hardly  more 
Than  that  hidden  dust  I  filliped  from  my  palm 
The  day  I  feigned  to  pare  my  David's  nose 
For  Soderini. 

Blue  sky — the  sea  below ! 

I  stood  and  thought,  what  sea-mark  might  not  rise 
Immaculate  on  this  mountain?     Thus,  or  thus 
Disposed, — why  not  some  glorious  Pieta 
Eluding  schoolmen's  definitions?     Yes, 
The  mountain-mother,  Nature, — in  her  lap 
The  tortured  limbs  relaxed  of  breathing  Life 
Exempt  at  last  from  the  long  agony, 
Quieted  by  this  vast  mysterious  sky 
That  broods  forever  over  us,  and  should  lend 
Its  elemental  purity  and  pity 
To  her  deep  immortal  gaze.    I  felt  the  stone 
Already  flaking  from  my  flying  chisel 
Seized  by  a  spirit  stronger  than  my  own, 
As  in  the  days  when  I  despised  clay  models 
And  flung  myself  against  some  massive  block 
With  fury — what  they  call  my  "  terribleness." 
The  Voice  of  the  seaward  scarp,  I  saw  it  grow 
Forth  from  the  stone,  an  immemorial 
Astonishment  to  all  the  future's  ships 
Whose  sailors,  stricken  dumb,  should  drop  the  rope, 
Forget  the  sail,  and  stare,  and  bow  their  heads, 
Aye,  bend  their  knees — adrift  in  waking  trance! 
[58] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

The  moment  passed.     I  shambled  down  the  moun 
tain 

Moaning,  "  Oh,  for  the  eyes  of  Uriel 
To  see  how  all  these  leaguering  ambitions 
Of  the  heart  my  triumph !  "     Once  more  the  mo 
ment  passed. 

Why,  visions — and  I  have  seen  them — such  as  that 
Which  took  me  in  the  garden  of  my  house 
In  the  first  year  of  Leo's  rule,  one  Autumn: 
The  marvelous  three-rayed  meteor  that  I  drew 
With  pen  and  colors, — one  ray  turned  east  and  one 
O'er  Rome,  and  one  toward  Florence, — visions,  I 

think, 

Are  no  more  strange  (though  less  accountable) 
Than  these  inward  dreams  that  grow  and  fill  the 

mind 

Belittling  life  to  a  small  mire  for  flies, 
Not  men,  to  buzz  about !  As  proud — such  dreams — 
As,  for  one  instance,  that  glorious  second  sight 
Investing  the  bargaining  Bernadone's  son, 
Saint  Francis,  when  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw 
A  crucified  seraph  in  the  Apennine. 
Can  one  not  image  the  feebly  thundering  wings, 
The  iridescent  glory,  the  wild  heaven-grief, 
The  torsions  of  those  torn  celestial  limbs, 
The  grandeur  glowing  through  such  clouds  of  pain ! 

But,  Father,  you  wished  a  sound  wool-stapling  son, 

[59] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

No     "  mere     stone-mason " !    .    .    .    So,     there's 

Lorenzo's  garden 
And   the   mask   of   that   old    faun   whose   teeth    I 

pulled     .    .    . 

Five  ducats  a  month,  a  violet-colored  mantle, 
My  father's  customs-office, — Girolamo 
Thundering  from  the  pulpit  of  Duomo, — 
The  Brancacci  chapel,  and  my  broken  nose ! 
Helter-skelter,  out  tumble  the  memories, — 
All  heaped  as  offerings  to  Masaccio    .    .    .    ah, 
And  there  again — our  great  Poliziano, 
With  his  beaked  nose,  full  eye,  and  scintillant  mind, 
Who  heartened  me  (with  talk  of  Thessaly 
And  how  Peirithous  and  the  Lapiths  fought 
The  galloping  Centaurs  all  a  summer  night) 
To  work  my  first  relief !     He  laughed  indeed 
On  being  able  to  discover  only 
One  centaur — dead — in  all  the  striving  throng. 

I  wonder,  could  Lorenzo  see  me  now, 
Would  the  poetic  despot  set  his  hand, 
As  once,  upon  my  shoulder,  and  with  converse 
Of  art  show  me  from  out  his  cabinets 
Some  strange  fifth  century  carnelian  scarab 
Graeco-Pho2nician,  or  a  Grecian  seal 
Presenting  the  quadriga  ?     I  well  recall 
One  signet  of  exceptional  intaglio: 
'Twas  Heracles  and  the  Nemean  lion, 
Cufic  calligraphy  on  gray  sardonyx.     .    .    . 
[60] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

Such    music    and    tourneys,    as    if    all    life    were 

spring,— 

Such  feasts,  such  trysts,  such  jovial  wicked  wit, 
Withal  such  learning  and  culture:  jongleurs  singing 
The  triumphs  of  love,  and,  in  some  high  cool  cham- 

ber, 

Pico,  our  Phoenix,  arguing  Arabic 
Or  the  haughty  Chancellor  explaining  style !     .    .    . 
With  all  the  great  I  sat  at  board  in  hall, 
Philologists,  translators,  poets,  scholars. 
Most  clear  I  see  one  exquisite  spring  evening. 
The  sky  was  heliotrope  and  softest  saffron. 
We  were  met  in  Pico's  villa,  on  the  slope 
Of  Fiesole, — orange,  olive,  and  vine 
Around  us.    Far  beneath,  the  red-tiled  roofs 
And     domes     of     Florence, — beyond     it,     Arno's 

meadows. 

Many  were  gathered.    One  was  the  Greek  savant 
Demetrius  Chalcondylas ;  another  Linacre 
The  English  doctor.     Everyone  reclined 
'Mid  wax-lights  winking  under  the  spreading  trees. 
Poliziano  sang  a  gay  ballata — 
One  of  his  own,  set  to  a  mandoline. 
Lorenzo  presided  in  an  arrassed  chair. 
Goblets  of  wine,  chestnuts,  and  sugar-tarts, 
Almonds  and  other  sweetmeats  passed  about. 
Ficino,  the  enthusiast,  swam  in  words, 
Some  near  to  heresy,  as  he  expounded 

[61] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan    [CONTINUED] 

The  Infinite  First  Cause, — most  bravely  striving 

To  reconcile  his  Plato  with  Saint  Paul 

To  the  youthful  Pico,  marvelously  wise, 

Whose  forehead  leant  on  one  delicate  pale  hand, 

His    brown     hair     falling    low,    his     gray    eyes 

stern.     .    .    . 

Soft  from  the  pine-clad,  heather-honeyed  hills, 
Girdling  our  City  of  Flowers,  floated  the  sound 
Of  faint  far  music;  stately  overhead 
Swam  forth  the  white  processional  of  the  stars. 

Aye,  once  again  beneath  the  palace  walls 

The  masquers  revel,  girls  dance  the  carola; 

Or  through  the  market-place  I  stroll,  and  pause 

To  watch  some  smiling  contadina  pass 

Basket  on  arm,  whose  firm-set  elbow  cocked 

Suggests  a  hard  bit  of  foreshortening. 

The  night  comes  cool  after  the  stifling  heat 

Of  summer  day — asimmer  with  the  plague 

That  took  its  toll  so  often.     In  the  broad  square 

Patterned  with  moonlight,  burgher  story-tellers 

Chuckle     and    quip.     .    .    .     Nay!       There's    the 

tramp  of  horse 

In  sunlight;  the  Magnifico  returns 
From  bowered  Careggi  with  his  retinue.     .    .    . 

Ah,  Florence,  Florence!     And  once,  as  7  returned 
From  San  Miniato  where  our  falconets 
Held  off  the  siege,  I  marked  upon  the  roof 
[62] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

Of  Santa  Croce,  musicians  seated  playing, 

And,   on   the  piazza,  two   squads   of  whites   and 

greens 

Battling  at  calcio  for  the  football  goal. 
Thus  light  you  held  disaster,  thus  you  lifted 
A  laughing  face  to  doom,  insurgent  people, — 
As  Niccolo  named  you,  "  vain  and  childish  still !  " 
Yet  with  nobility  and  fortitude 
His  sad  embittered  nature  might  not  see. 
But   blunderers,   blunderers!      For   the   Apennine 

gorges 

Had  you  sent  forth  but  a  few  thousand  men 
Instead  of  lavishing  such  craven  gold 
You  had  turned  Bourbon  back — who  knows? — and 

saved 

The  sack  of  Rome  and  your  own  ravishment. 
True  that  France  paltered,  true  that  Venice  quaked, 
Francesco  Maria  snapped  like  a  broken  reed 
And  Clement  swayed  to  every  gust  that  blew; 
The  muddle  around  Milan  seemed  worse  than  fate ; 
Yet,  Florence,  thou  "  most  beauteous  daughter  of 

Rome  " 

As  Dante  hailed  thee, — Florence,  Caesar's  camp, 
Where  was  thy  strong  hand  to  save  Italy 
That  hour?    Did  thy  banner  not  bear  the  badge 
Of  a  great  free  people — not  a  ship  of  fools  ? 
Too  late !    The  viper  Baglioni  lurked 
Warm  in  your  bosom.    Again  I  hear  the  shout 

[63] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

"  Viva  Gesu  Cristo,  nostro  Re !  " 

Leafy  San  Miniato  gay  with  villas 

Felt  axe  and  hatchet  fall.     Upon  the  tower 

I  placed  my  wool-bales.    With  a  moody  mind 

I  carved  that  winged  Victory  for  our  camp — 

Demolished  by  the  victors     ...    all  too  late ! 

Rash  hope  of  France — the  great  betrayal — soon 
Overthrow,  rapine,  sack, — and  Florence  dead. 
There  stand  the  figures  in  the  sacristy 
Of  San  Lorenzo,  showing  forth  my  mind. 
Who  cared  for  the  younger  Medici?     I  carved 
Florence  the  warrior,  gazing  on  her  ruin; 
Florence  the  young  and  somewhat  specious  knight 
Of  times  of  peace,  luxurious  and  weak. 
There  Day  and  Night,  Twilight  and  Dawn  display 
My  various  resignation  or  despair 
For  her.     I  hid  my  grief.     I  came  to  Rome, 
Never  to  look  upon  my  Florence  more. 

Was  that  a  knock?    This  cramp  gets  in  my  legs 
And  I  can't  move.     The  dogskin  hose  beneath 
My  stockings,  and  these  cordovan  leather  boots, 
Don't  aid  my  sudden  shifting  either.    So! 
Now  another  candle.    Hola!    I  am  coming! 

You,  Giorgio?     Giorgio,  Giorgio,  is  it  you! 
A  thousand  welcomes,  friend !    Come  in !    Come  in ! 
That  is  good  f eltro  you  are  clad  in,  friend ; 
164] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

The  weather  still  is  sharp,  though  hardly  yet 

The  time  for  malaria  from  the  Pontine  marshes. 

Still,  it  is  not  the  clean  air  of  Casentino — 

Especially — but  I  see  you  in  the  flesh! 

And  so  you  brought  the  Cardinal  to  Rome  ? 

Ah,  what  a  jewel  in  your  velvet  cap 

That  is — no,  that  I  meant,  secures  your  feather. 

Such  a  cape  and  tabard — and  what  riding-boots 

Spacious  and  spurred!     Why  yes,  of  course  you 

came 

Just  as  you  are — to  see  the  old  man,  eh? 
Sit  down !     How  did  you  manage  to  give  the  slip  ? 
May  I  put  up  your  horse  ?    He  can  munch  straw 
Beside  my  chestnut  pony.     On  foot,  you  say? 
Again,  sit  down!     This  armchair  by  the  fireplace. 
That?    Oh,  stupidity,  I've  dropped  the  candle. 
That's  my  Pieta — no-o,  'tis  not  yet  finished. 
You  saw  it  before.     'Tonio!    Where's  the  man? 
Ah,  Giorgio,  now  my  rare  Urbino's  gone    .    .    . 
His  wife  Cornelia  loved  him  not  as  I    .    .    . 
His  death  and  my  brother  Sigismondo's  death  .  .   .  / 
But  this  is  scurvy  talk.    Come,  take  some  wine  ? 
Somewhere  I've  wine  from  Florence — trebbiano. 
(Even  better  than  water  from  the  Trevi  fountain!) 
Cheese?    Figs?     That  orcio  of  olive  oil 
Might  freshen  us  a  salad.    Say  you  ?    No, 
You've  dined.     Well  then,  tell  me  the  gossip  now. 
Your  journey?    Did  your  sumpter-mules  kick  loose, 

[65] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 
Your  guards  fall  into  drinking?     What's  the  ac 
count  ? 

Get  on  with  it — Lorenzo's  madrigal 
Had  it,  you  know,  that  youth  is  sweet,  but  flies. 
Speak,  or  my  youth  will  leave  me  all  too  soon, 
I  fear, — this  garrulous  second  youth  of  mine! 
I  was  thinking  of  these  later  Medici; 
At  least  that  bastard  mulatto     .    .    .    Me  perdone, 
Giorgio!     One  forgets.     But  Cosmo  seems 
Better.    Ah,  all  those  letters  that  you  wrote  me, 
And  he   ...   I  feel  the  honor  sensibly, 
Yet,  as  I  answered,  I  must  not  give  up 
Seventeen  years  hard  labor,  while  the  breath 
Is  in  my  body — to  see  it  hacked  apart 
By  fools.     When  it  is  finished,  it  is  finished. 
Then  let  them  raze  it.     I'll  be  safely  dead. 

What's    that   you   say?      Such   a   triumph?      My 

catarrh 

Affects  my  hearing  slightly.    Wild  rejoicing 
Along  your  j  ourney  ?     Ah,  but  did  they  truly  ? 
With  olive  garlands  on  their  heads,  white  robes, 
And    branches    in   their  hands     ...    a   banquet 

too! 

Yes,  I  have  eaten  prugnoli,  and  the  wine 
Of  Monte  Alcino  is  good.     You  live  on  plush, 
My  Giorgio,  these  days.    I  am  glad  the  Duke 
Has  such  a  devoted  servant. 

[66] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

So-o?  Now  this 

Must  be  the  kernel  of  the  nut.  You  say — ? 
I  know — Girolamo's  olden  Council  Hall. 
The  Duke  greatly  desires  my  own  opinion? 
Well,  we'll  exchange  our  models,  Giorgio  mio. 
Tomorrow — come  in  the  forenoon — we  will  ride 
To  Saint  Peter's,  and  you  shall  see  the  wooden  one 
That  my  divine,  celestial  Cavaliere 
Has  at  last  prevailed  upon  my  laziness 
To  finish,  and  ease,  says  he,  my  aching  head. 
Though  there's  an  outline  of  the  dome  I  drew 
Upon  the  marble  floor  of  Saint  Paul's — but  that 
I  fear  is  not  so  orderly !     Now  see, 
For  example,  here's  the  cartoon  showing  the  plan, 
The  Greek  Cross.    I  eked  it  out  with  various  sheets 
Pasted  together.     Do  you  like  it,  eh? 
But,  for  tomorrow,  we'll  see  that  great  antique 
The  Belvedere  torso.     They  say  there's  a  Hercules 
By  Lysippus,  that  he  made  for  Alexander 
To  carry  upon  the  march, — a  table  figure 
The  posture's  worked  from. 

Ah,  now  I  blush !  You  make 
Too  much  of  me  in  your  most  excellent  book. 
"  In  contempt  of  envy,  in  despite  of  death    ..." 
Tragically  I  sit  for  hours  and  try 
To  sprout  the  wings  to  match;  I,  who  they  say 
Derive  all  anatomy  from  Pollaiuolo, 
All  vigor  from  Signorelli.    We-el,  'tis  true 

[67] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 
I  do  commend  the  latter's  compositions. 
Something  from  Orvieto's  in  the  Judgment, 
Have  you  noticed? 

But  let  me  bow  to  you  in  turn 
And  thank  you  deeply  for  your  thoughts  of  me 
In  these  last  years, — sending  Bartoli's  book 
That  "  Defence  of  Dante," — that  was  when  I  fled 
From  Rome  to  the  mountains,  from  the  Spanish 

troops. 

Those  autumn  weeks  in  oak  and  olive  wood 
Verily  saved  my  life;  and  I  can  say 
For  once  at  least  in  my  harassed  career 
My  solitude  brought  peace,  and  faith  again. 
The  sacrilege  and  simony  of  old  Rome 
Passed,   and  the    wars   passed,   and  the  blood  of 

Christ 

Sold  with  both  hands ;  the  splendor  and  the  shame. 
The  world  dropped  from  my  back  for  that  short 

space. 

But  you  can  understand.    You  have  often  spoken 
Of  your  Camaldoli  among  the  firs, 
Among  the  mountains,  where  you  healed  your  heart 
After  Alessandro's  murder,— among  the  snows 
Where  gentle  rivulets  threaded  from  cell  to  cell 
Of  that  high  Hermitage.    I  am  recluse  too. 

How  is  the  gentle  wife?    I  joyed  to  hear 
You  were  rewarded  for  your  ruined  farms 
In  the  valley  of  Chiaua.     Oh  these  wars! 
[68] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

For  my  part  I  declare  I  hate  all  men 
Who  would  begin  with  evil, — that  is,  murder, 
To  bring  forth  good.     It  is  a  great  presumption 
To  dare  kill  anyone.     The  man  who  said, 
"  I  am  no  statesman,  but  an  honest  man." 
Spoke  truth  indeed. 

What  store  is  in  your  book 
Of  artists.    And  I  have  upon  my  conscience 
That  tilt  with  Leonardo.     Yes,  I  said 
Rude  things  to  Leonardo,  and  I  thought  him 
Utterly  insincere.     But,  as  for  casting 
His  Sforza — what  is  casting,  after  all. 
My  Julius  made  a  better  cannon  so ! 
And  yet  I  well  remember  it  was  Francia 
Praised  the  Bologna  statue,  as  it  was, 
For  the   casting  most.       And   how   that  angered 

me! 

Francia  was  suave  like  all  his  suave  Madonnas, 
Too  smooth  enameled. 

Yes,  I  have  had  my  wrongs, 

The  Sangallists,  and  Bramante — though  you  state 
The  case  too  strongly  there — and  now  this  oaf, 
This  bungler,  Nanni!     But  let  us  speak  of  other 
More  lively  things.    .    .    . 

You  must  go  ?    Ah,  not  so  soon ! 
Well  then,  tomorrow.    Giorgio  mio,  I  thank 
Your  immediate  devotion  and  courtesy 
For  this  kind  visit — thus — on  both  your  cheeks. 

[69] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

So  you  found  the  old  fellow — eh?     There's  a  step 

down. 
You  slide  the  bolt.    Good  night!    Good  night ! 

And  now 

Something  to  draw  with.     Here  is  the  design : 
A  graybeard — in  a  go-cart — with  his  hourglass. 
Anchora  Imparo  on  the  scroll  above. 
Excellent  truly.    Such  a  one  am  I. 
I  learn  even  in  decay. 

Ah  yes,  Bramante 

Did  wish  to  ruin  me — for  Raphael's  sake 
We'll  say — and  certainly  I  never  told  him 
I  was  so  singly  sculptor  as  to  be 
Unable  to  paint  any  foreshortened  figure 
Upon  a  vault.     .    .    .     Yet  that  was  toil  indeed! 
The  length  of  wet  fine  plaster,  the  cartoon 
Stretched  on  the  surface,  and  the  outlines  traced, 
Muscles  and  draperies  dashed  in  with  the  stylus, 
Till  my  head  twisted  like  the  wool-guild's  lamb, 
My  breast  clove  to  my  backbone,  dropping  plaster 
Bedaubed  my  face  as  though  I  wore  a  mask. 
And  then  the  surface  took  a  mist,  and  then 
That  rascal,  Julius,  tried  my  twanging  nerves 
With  silly  directions  from  his  post  below 
Till  I  was  fain  to  wrench  out  scaffold  planks 
And  hurl  them  on  his  stubborn  head. 

I  see  him 

Standing  as  on  that  April  day  he  laid 
[70] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

The  new  Saint  Peter's  firm  foundation-stone, 

Shouting  the  crowd  back  from  the  pier's  deep  pit, 

Sprinkling  the  marble  with  a  benediction — 

The  stone  that  held  the  vase  deposited 

And  filled  with  coins  and  medals     ...     I  can  see 

His  armor  flashing  as  he  reviewed  the  troops 

Another  time — or  watch  him  as  he  plays 

At  tric-trac,  wholly  easeful,  or  again 

Sight  him  against  a  marble  balustrade 

'Mid  trellised  roses,  with  his  snowy  beard 

Pouring  upon  his  crimson  mantle,  smiling 

On  two  court  lovers  in  a  loggia.     Ah, 

He  was  a  man !    He  quelled  the  whole  Romagna, 

Panted  for  time  toward  more  great  purposes, — 

And  slave-drove  Art — yet  always  with  intention 

Beyond  the  dull  ambitions  of  the  great. 

Leo  was  waste,  Clement  was  vacillation, 

Julius  was  power, — Julius  was  power  indeed! 

The  man  of  action,  how  he  dwarfs  the  artist ! 
Though  many  a  doffed  beretta  has  done  me  honor 
And  Francis  and  the  Sultan  fawned  on  me, 
Faugh  for  the  artist's  life! 

I  know  I  lie. 

For  this  is  sure  among  all  things  unsure : 
That  he  who  holds,  through  good  or  evil  hap, 
The  hegemony  of  his  soul's  own  city, 
Disfranchising  all  lusts   and  vanities, 
Has  more  than  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth, 

[71] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan   [CONTINUED] 

Is  more  than  that  poor  Prince  of  Niccolo's, — 

His  brilliant,  impossible,  calculating — monster  .   .  . 

And  so,  as  ever,  Vittoria  returns 

To  stateliest  music  through  my  memory. 

Monte  Cavallo,  be  thou  blessed  hence, 

Though  at  thy  foot  they  say  red  Nero  stood       .  - 

To     watch     the     flame-filled     cloud     of     burning 

Rome ! 

For  there  my  love  would  build  a  nunnery. 
I  promised  her  designs.    .    .    . 

My  drawings  pleased  her;  the  Pieta  most. 

On  the  last  day  she  said  that  I  should  stand 

At  the  Lord's  right  hand  in  heaven.  Ah,,  her  heaven, 

"  Magnificent  Messer  Michelangelo," — 

From  which  distilled  such  cooling  dews  upon 

Your  eternal  misery  of  procrastination, — 

What  heaven  for  you  ? 

Heaven — heaven  in  those  hours! 

Her  pamphlet  on  "  The  Passion  of  the  Redeemer  " 
Rests — here ;  the  same  the  Inquisition  searched  for. 
This  folio  of  her  sonnets.  .  .  .  God's  spark! 

God's  spark ! 

Hands  off,  Bembo,  thou  polished  humanist, 
They  need  not  thine  august  imprimatur! 
She  saw  a  flaming  sign  in  Juan  Valdez 
Who  thundered  at  the  Curia's  corruption, — 
Wrote  many  poems  in  the  Valdensian  spirit, — 
[72] 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  TUSCAN 

The  Triumphant  Tuscan  [CONTINUED] 
Loved  the  Capuchins,  hated  evil  things, 
Took  pity  on  poor  Renee.  .  .  . 

Thanks  to  God 

She  sleeps,  while  cruel  beasts  hunt  down  the  just. 
This  church  they  see  is  not  the  church  she  saw 
Nor  ever  could  be ! 

Oftentimes  she  came 
From  Santa  Caterina  into  Rome, 
And  died  within  the  convent  of  Sant'  Anna. 
And  died  within  the  convent — here  at  Rome.     .    .    . 
Now  in  that  mystical  convent  of  white  stoles 
With  Beatrice,  where  the  yellowing  Rose 
In  sempiternal  fragrance  rays  its  light; 
A  nd  light  in  the  form  of  a  river  gloweth  there 
With  ineffable  effulgence    .    .    .    every  side 
Living  sparks  like  ruby  and  like  topaz  shine 
Among  the  flowers    .    .    .    "Light  is  thereabove 
Which  makes  the  Creator  visible  to  that  creature 
Which  has  its  peace  only  in  seeing  Him    ...     .'  " 

So-o!    So-of    Well,  Messer  Cock,  don't  split  your 

throat 

Shrilling  of  dawn  without !    The  gray  mists  seep 
Through  door  and  window.    How  my  candle  pales ! 
'Tis  time  to  stumble  to  my  iron  bed 
Up  obdurate  stairs,  up  past  the  Death  I  painted 
That  with  his  coffin  looms  confronting  me.     .    .    . 

"  Rend  thou  the  veil,  Dear  Lord!     Break  thou  the 
wall!  " 

[73] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


MICHELANGELO  IN  THE 
FISH-MARKET 

HERE'S  color  for  my  monsters !    Verily, 
This  is  no  Arno-spawn, — far  greater  game ! 
These  shimmering,  gleaming,  flashing  forms   first 

came 

To  sunlight  in  the  great  JEgean  Sea.          , 
Ye  sacred  symbols !     They  have  whispered  me 
Your  Greek  style  bears  the  initials  of  His  name 
And  titles,  where  lies  hidden  in  the  same 
The  Sibyl  of  Erythra's  prophecy! 

Howbeit,  Messer  Domenico,  you 

Shall  gape  to  see  my  drawing  when  I'm  through.    .  . 

What  dawn-pulsed  gills,   what  splendor   on   each 

scale ! 

This  mullet's  bottle-green,  with  silver  under, — 
That  weird,  dark-flecked  murena.     .    .    .    Well,  no 

wonder 
I  shall  net  Popes  when  soon  I  spread  my  sail ! 


[74] 


BAST 


BAST 

SHE  had  green  eyes,  that  excellent  seer, 
And  little  peaks  to  either  ear. 
She  sat  there,  and  I  sat  here. 

She  spoke  of  Egypt,  and  a  white 
Temple,  against  enormous   night. 

She  smiled  with  clicking  teeth  and  said 
That  the  dead  were  never  dead; 

Said  old  emperors  hung  like  bats 

In  barns  at  night,  or  ran  like  rats — 

But  empresses  came  back  as  cats! 


[75] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  SUN  GAZER 

THE  zenith  age  was  past  of  earthly  spoil 
For  Egypt.    Amonhotep's  and  Thothmes' 
Scythed  chariots  swept  Syria.     For  their  foil 
Strange  Akhenaten  'twas  succeeded  these 
With  single  worship,  where  the  shrewmouse  even 
Was  sacred  to  some  god  of  Egypt's  heaven. 

When  kings  were  likened  both  to  bulls  and  lions, 
Forth  in  simplicity  came  this  one  king, 
Foreshadowing  Israel's  belief  and  Zion's, 
With  only  words  of  love  and  peace  to  bring 
An  age  of  banditry  and  ravening  lust, — 
He  the  vain  dreamer,  the  gentle  and  the  just. 

For  there,  in  the  far  dark  of  history, 

He  saw  one  God  above  all  gods  endure 

In  the  sun  of  heaven,  one  strange  sublimity, 

Source  of  all  living  things,  one  cause  and  cure, — 

Nor  mere  effulgence  and  material  heat, 

But  an  all-being,  that  caused  the  heart  to  beat. 

The  fine  green  scarabs  of  his  father's  reign 
Bear  graved  accounts  of  festival,  oblation, 
And  ceremony.     These  the  son  thought  were  vain 
Unless  to  Aten,  Lord  of  all  Creation, 
[76] 


THE  SUN  GAZER 
The  Sun  Gazer   [CONTINUED] 

Whose  gross,  deceitful  shade  was  Amon-Ra. 
"  Adoring  with  their  wings  thy  sacred  ka, 

"  The  birds  fly  in  their  haunts ;  the  fishes  be 
Dazed  with  the  bright  profusion  of  thy  beams 
Even  in  the  deeps  of  the  green-glimmering  sea !  " 
He  sings;  and  when  he  died,  slain  by  his  dreams, 
The  plotting  priesthood  triumphed  with  their  guile 
And  left  his  name  no  trace,  and  called  him  vile. 

But  beneath  crescent  cliffs  there  lay  a  bay 
And  a  small  island,  where  Akhenaten  made 
A  city  for  the  chosen  of  his  day, 
Where  all  should  love  and  no  man  be  afraid 
And  the  many-handed  beams  touch  all,  and  bless 
All  equally,  and  wither  wretchedness. 

"  The  Aten  my  father  'twas  who  brought  me  here, 
The  City  of  the  Horizon  this  shall  be. 
O  rampart  of  a  million  cubits  sheer, 
Remembrancer,  thou,  of  eternity, — 
O  thou  whom  no  artificer  hath  known, 
Aid  me  to  build !     I  see  in,  thee  alone !  " 

He  raised  his  temples,  shadows-of-the-sun. 
"  Words  of  the  priests,"  he  said,  "  more  evil  they 
Than  those  things  King  Nebmaara  hath  known  done 
Or  Menkheperura  heard !  "    So  many  a  day 

[77] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Sun  Gazer   [CONTINUED] 

They  painted  walls  with  lotus-flower  buds, 

Embossed  the  panels  and  set  the  golden  studs, 

Raised  costly  cedar  covered  all  with  gold, 

Scored  out  the  name  of  Amon  from  far  cliffs 

And  graffti,  made  the  courts  fair  to  behold 

With  masts  and  chiseled  scenes  and  hieroglyphs, — 

But  o'er  each  pylon,  wall,  and  obelisk, 

The  true  God  flashed  his  symbol,  the  sun's  disk. 

Ah  then  the  Theban  triad  paled  and  bowed, 
And  Khnemu  doffed  the  twi-plumed  atef  crown, 
And  Nak,  the  demon-serpent  of  the  cloud, 
And  the  great  judge,  Osiris,  all  bowed  down; 
And  Thoth,  the  ibis-headed  giant  turned 
Wild  eyes  and  gnashing  beak,  and  Isis  burned 

With  frustrate  wrath.    Along  the  haunted  road 
To  the  pyramids,  along  the  lonely  plain 
From  Heliopolis'  nome,  a  concourse  flowed, 
Gods  on  the  gods'  high  way,  wailing  in  vain 
To  Harmachis,  the  sphinx.     The  burial-ground 
Of  ancient  kings  echoed  and  stirred  around. 

Processions  of  images  and  ghostly  boats 

And  strange  shapes  striding  with  heads  of  cat  and 

ram 

Or  jackal-jaws;  eyes  of  each  beast  that  gloats 
Widened  in  panic  of  one  who    breathed  "  I  am !  " 

[78] 


THE  SUN  GAZER 

The  Sun  Gazer  [CONTINUED] 

The  snake  of  the  northwind,  the  barque  of  Ra 

Drove  eastward  toward  the  dark  peninsula. 

Nun,  of  primaeval  waters,  led  the  van ; 

Horus,  the  falcon;  Mentu,  god  of  war; 

Atmu,  Anubis;  roaring  Sekhmet  ran 

From  Memphis;  like  a  golden  cloud,  Hathor, 

With  Hekt,  frog-headed,  the  goddess  of  all  birth 

And  Set,  the  spirit  of  evil  on  the  earth. 

The  goat- faced  potter  of  the  cataract; 

Hawk,  ram,  and  man-faced  sphinxes,  all  fled  by 

Like  refugees  from  out  a  city  sacked, 

A  wave  of  darkness  under  the  dark  sky, 

A  rout  of  star-mist  that  far  shepherds  soon 

On  lonely  hills  saw  travelling  past  the  moon 

In  rolling  clouds  tinged  with  weird  bloody  dye 
And  tossed  in  monstrous  shapes.     They  seemed  to 

hear 

Lowings  and  hissings  and  wilder  sounds  on  high, 
And  darkness  fell  upon  them,  and  great  fear, 
And  their  sheep  huddled  as  at  the  khamsin's  blast 
As  out  of  Egypt  the  gods  of  Egypt  passed. 

So  Akhenaten  triumphed — a  little  space; 
But  priest  and  warrior  stood  against  his  light. 
He  sickened,  died  at  last  in  the  disgrace 
Of  all— for  Sephel,  king  of  the  Hittite, 

[79] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Sun  Gazer  [CONTINUED] 

Smote  the  Canaan  and  conquered  as  with  fire. 

Ribaddi  stood,  and  Abimilech  of  Tyre; 

Ribaddi,  king  of  Byblos,  keeping  faith 

With  Egypt,  as  did  not  faithless  Aziru, 

The  Amorite.     And  rebels  wrought  great  scaith, 

Murder  and  plunder,  and  still  the  conquest  grew. 

" — And  Tunip  thy  city  weeps,  her  tears  are  falling! 

For  twenty  years,  oh  king,  we  have  been  calling 

The  King,  the  King  of  Egypt,  our  great  Sun   .    .    . 
Simyra  is  a  bird  into  the  snare    .    .    . 
But  thou  hast  sent  us  not  one  word — not  one !  " 
So  wails  their  anguish  in  th'  old  character. 
Deputies,  officers  brought  curse  and  prayer, 
Yet  Akhenaten  brooded  in  despair, 

Still  loving  peace,  still  praying  weariedly 

To  his  one  god  that  naught  could  quite  abash. 

"  As  long  as  the  King's  ships  are  on  the  sea 

His  strong  arm  held  him  Naharin  and  Kash, 

But  now  the  Khabiri  sack  the  King's  strong  cities ! 

King,  save  thy  land,  this  day  of  direful  pities !  " 

Thus  the  cuneiform  from  Palestine 
And  all  of  Syria's  empire  holding  leal. 
Then  night  came  down  on  Akhenaten's  line. 
The  bitterest  pang  for  any  king  to  feel 
Rended  his  heart.     His  people  died  the  death, 
And  all  that  he  could  give  seemed  idle  breath. 
[80] 


THE  SUN  GAZER 

The  Sun  Gazer  [CONTINUED] 

The  city  of  brightness  gradually  darkened 

To  a  city  of  the  grave,  necropolis 

Of  even  God.    All  night,  wide-eyed,  he  hearkened 

Curses  and  wailings  from  a  black  abyss 

Of  slaughtered  lives, — he,  who  would  put  no  trust 

In  spear  or  chariot  or  the  loud  dust 

Of  marching  hoplites  with  their  emblems  flashing 
O'er  the  lapped  shields.    His  empire  fell  apart, 
And  Egypt's  earthly  might ;  and  black  waves,  dash 
ing 

Their  tear-floods,  roared  in  caverns  of  his  heart, 
As  some  seamed  warrior  from  the  east,  alone, 
Stood  with  clenched  fists,  imploring,  at  the  throne. 

The  captured  cities  near  Orontes  mouth, 

The  sea-coast  cities,  the  provinces  all  torn, 

Despoiled  and  rent,  the  vineyards  of  the  south, 

The  ravaged  pasturage  and  trampled  corn, 

The  desperate  defense,  the  falling  wall, — 

And  still  he  prayed,  "  There  is  one  God  for  all !  " 

Yes,  he  put  by  the  sword,  put  by  the  sword, 
And  so  lay  dead.    And  Harmhab  took  his  place, 
That  doughty  captain  whom  all  the  folk  adored, 
Who  wrought  and  fought  and  won  back  for  his  race 
Gradual  sway.     Then  Rameses  held  power 
Soon,  and  their  conquest  knew  a  zenith  hour 

[81] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Sun  Gazer  [CONTINUED] 

Till,  with  his  death,  at  length  all  fell  apart, 

And  hordes  from  west  and  east,  from  south  and 

north, 

Made  the  land  strengthless.     So  our  musings  start 
On  Akhenaten.    Lonely  he  went  forth, 
Lonely  he  died,  the  zealot  to  the  last, 
Cast  in  a  mould  wherein  no  king  was  cast; 

The  man  who  saw  his  God  so  face  to  face 
All  else  was  shadow  in  that  blinding  light ; 
The  man  who  willed  salvation  for  his  race 
Through  happiness  at  last  before  the  night; 
He  who  would  build  on  love,  and  love  alone, 
The  welfare  of  a  kingdom  and  a  throne. 

His  name  they  cut  from  all  the  monuments, 
Heaped   the   opprobrium,   raised   their   gods   once 

more, 

And  passioned  on  after  their  own  intents. 
Again  I  see  him  tread  the  painted  floor 
Between  the  gilded  columns,  in  the  cool 
Of  some  high  lakeward-looking  vestibule. 

He  murmurs,  "  Living  in  Truth !  " — his  title  then. 
"  Living  in  Truth !  "  and  "  Aten,  I  behold !  " 
A  pale,  frail  youth,  whose  body  should  have  been 
Lapped,  like  his  mother's,  in  sheets  of  purest  gold 
Ere   it   was   coffined, — for   there   a   King   stepped 

down, 

Of  old,  to  doff  his  crown — and  take  his  crown. 
[82] 


THE  QUEEN'S  IDYLL 


THE  QUEEN'S  IDYLL 

KILIMANDJARO,  Father  of  the  Nile, 

Smiled  not  on  any  fairer, 

Nor  Narmer,  the  old  Scorpion,  king  of  guile 

In  predynastic  glory. 

The  diadems  are  two,  the  red  and  white, — 

Of  both  she  was  the  wearer, 

Oasis  apricot,  the  moon's  delight! 

Tis  of  the  Queen  Hatshepsut  that  I  write. 

Hear  the  Queen's  story! 

Queen  of  Two  Lands,  by  Lower  Egypt  crowned 

With  thronelike  headdress  high 

And  red,  whereon  was  Upper  Egypt's  bound 

Of  linen  stiff  and  white, — 

Sister  and  wife  of  Thothmes,  she  appeared 

Beneath  the  Hawk-god's  sky 

Wearing  the  collar  and  the  small  false  beard 

To  seem  full  monarch-man.    The  bright  asp  reared 

Golden  from  brows  as  bright. 

From  Buto  in  the  Delta  to  Aswan 

At  the  first  cataract 

"  King  of  the  North  and  South  "  her  titles  ran, 

And  east  to  Sinai's  cliffs, — 

[83] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Queen's  Idyll  [CONTINUED] 

Hailed  "  golden  falcon  of  the  solar  blood  " 

Where  e'er  her  camels  tracked, — 

Her  father  Amon  named,  who,  in  a  flood 

Of  light  and  perfume  o'er  her  mother  stood, 

As  hymn  the  hieroglyphs. 

Yet  dreams,  strange  dreams  perplexed  the  royal 

heart. 

The  Queen  to  Karnak  fared 
Where  the  superb  propylons  leaned  apart 
Masted  with  cedars  tall 
And    brilliant   pennants.      She   entered    from   the 

light, 

Heart-throbbing  that  she  dared, 
And  stood  'mid  soaring  pillars  beneath  the  bright 
Enameled  semblance  blue  of  gilt-starred  night 
In  the  hypostylic  hall. 

Beyond,  in  monolithic  shrine,  the  god 
Held  seat  and  sacred  ark. 

Around  him,  sculptured  courts,  where  e'er  one  trod. 
With  battle-scene  and  myth 

The    walls    were    colored.      Palmed    priests    ap 
proached  the  king 
Bearing  the  holy  barque 

Of  Amon,  lord  of  thrones.     Their  rites  they  sing. 
"  Souton  di  hotpou!  "    She  renders  offering, 
Invoking  signs  therewith. 

[84] 


THE  QUEEN'S  IDYLL 

The  Queen's  Idyll   [CONTINUED] 

"  We  love,  O  Father  Amon,  Lord  of  Thebes 

And  guardian  of  Karnak ! 

As  silver  dourah  sprouts  from  darkest  glebes 

Our  heart  shows  forth  its  love. 

Then,  as  thou  lovest  the  king,  pray  counsel  Us 

To  find  what  now  We  lack, — 

From  the  great  Double  House  that  'mures  Us  thus 

How  to  adventure  some  voyage  perilous 

We  scarce  feel  worthy  of !  " 

The  god  bespeaks  the  priests  who  understand, 
While  sistrums  softly  thrill: 
"  The  ladders  of  incense  in  the  secret  land 
With  mystery  tease  my  rest. 

Plant  these,  to  deck  my  house!     When  night  ap 
pears 

Then  seek  there  what  I  will, — 
/,  Amon  thy  Father,  lord  of  hopes  and  fears; 
Through  my  strong  genii  of  the  myriad  years 
And  those  of  east  and  west!  " 

Sibylline  utterance  ceased.     She  bowed  her  head. 

Copper-clasped  leopard-ckin 

Swung    on    her    shoulder.      The    linen    headdress 

spread 

Striped  folds  upon  her  breast. 
She  turned — from  apron  to  her  ribboned  queue 
Kingly,  and  next  of  kin 

[85] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Queen's  Idyll  [CONTINUED] 

To    gods.      She    trod    the    whispering    pave,    and 

through 

Huge  doorways  to  her  waiting  retinue 
And  home  through  heat  to  rest. 

Senmut,  with  his  knobbed  stick  of  cherry  wood 
And  black  curled  wig,  in  broidered  linen  gowned, 
Obeised  before  the  high-plumed  Queen,  and  stood 
Under  her  gleaming  throne  whose  sides  were  bound 
With  lotus  and  papyrus.     "  Thy  temple  walls 
Are  finished,  Majesty.    The  hot  South  calls. 

"  And  at  command  we  seek  the  Balsam-land, 
Put  now  to  sea  for  Fount,  where  Thou  hast  heard 
Of  fabulous  treasure,  jewel-dazzled  sand, 
Numberless  herds,  and  many  a  gorgeous  bird. 
We  bring  you  back  the  incense-trees  you  seek !  " 
The  Queen's  lids  lowered.     She  thrilled  to  hear 
him  speak. 

The  golden  graven  collar  she  had  given 
To  this  her  architect  flashed  on  her  eyes 
Collyrium-lengthened  each  to  a  dark  heaven 
For  his  deep  gaze.     She  leaned.     He  heard  her 

sighs. 

"  Instruct  my  captains,"  he  heard  her  softly  say, 
"  And  swiftly  sail, — oh,  swiftly  sail  away !  " 

[86] 


THE  QUEEN'S  IDYLL 

The  Queen's  Idyll   [CONTINUED] 

Each  cabin  is  a  very  stately  house 

With  pillared  doors.    The  painted  flag-ship  gleams 

From  lotus-flower  stern  to  golden  bows 

With  green  and  yellow.    The  sail  is  cloth  of  dreams 

Spread   on  a  wide  yard   double  the   high   mast's 

height, 
And  thirty  rowers  dip  in  tides  of  light. 

The  boardings  are  like  chapels.     Prow  and  stern 
Bear  Harmachis,  the  Ibex,  and  the  Cow. 
Brave-striped  and  diapered  awnings,  fans  that  burn 
With  peacock  eyes,  shadow  the  deck.     And  now 
The  captain  lifts  his  wand.    The  green  and  red 
Chequered,  embroidered,  tasseled  sail  is  spread. 

And  toward  far  Fount  the  graceful  ships  are  gone 

For  stranger  freight  than  other  Nile-craft  quest 

Through  caravans  of  ointments,  cinnamon 

From  Ind ;  or  ships  of  Tarsus  and  the  west 

Lade  with  their  precious  woods,  or  argosies 

Of  Colchis,  with  their  brass,  bear  down  the  breeze. 

A  month  they  loitered  toward  that  wonderland, 
Then  saw  the  small  coned  huts  and  short-horned 

cows 

And  point-beard,  pigtailed  people  on  the  strand 
As  known  to  Chufu.     For  their  necks  and  brows 
Gay  necklets  had  they  brought,  daggers  and  rings. 
They  set  them  out  to  barter  with  these  things. 

[87] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Queen's  Idyll   [CONTINUED] 
Then  to  these  strangers  from  far  Tamera  drawn 
The  ruler's  heart  was  warmed;  and  cups  of  gold 
And  birds  of  peacock  plumage,  snared  at  dawn, — 
Paint  for  the  eyes,  pearls  priceless  to  behold 
(With   apes   dog-headed   and   monkeys    with  long 

tails !) 
Crowded  the  decks  'mid  casks  and  ropes  and  bales. 

There  was  a  cargo  of  rare  khesit-wood 

With  powder  of  Ahem,  kash  and  copper-ware, 

Mountains  of  incense-resin  purple-hued, 

And  hunting  leopards,  snarling  with  golden  stare; 

Gold  stone  and  blue  and  green!     The  sailors  sing, 

"  Never  was  like  brought  back  to  any  king!  " 

All  treasures  of  the  Land  of  Fount,  all  balms 
Of  the  Divine  Land ;  thirty-one  growing  trees 
For  Amon-Ra !    They  left  the  cocoa-palms 
And  Parihu,  the  Prince,  throned  at  his  ease. 
The  suite  of  the  great  Queen's  ambassador 
Struck  camp  and  left  that  white  sea-whispering 
shore. 

When  the  canal  was  reached,  two  years  or  more 
Had  passed  at  last.     By  the  high  granite  quay 
People  from  wharves  and  roofs  watched  them  out 
pour 

Their  curious  spoils.     The  Queen  came  down  to 
See, 
[88] 


THE  QUEEN'S  IDYLL 

The  Queen's  Idyll   [CONTINUED] 

Borne  in  her  naos,  with  emeralds  of  Sinai 

Globed  from  brown  ears,  green  uat  on  lid  of  eye, 

Snake  bracelets  and  a  helm  of  blue  with  brass 
Studs,  and  her  skin  made  gold, — on  all  her  limbs 
The  oil  of  Ani.     So  Senmut  saw  her  pass, 
Newly-returned.     Along  the  quay  she  swims 
Reclined  on  cushions  of  red  and  blue,  fresh-bathed 
And  dressed,  in  silver  tissues  sashed  and  swathed. 

The  painted  ships,  giraffes  and  monkeys  green, 
Wild-bearded  chiefs — all  in  the  hot  sunlight, 
Black  Nubians  white-toothed,  and,  there  between 
The  brick-hued  sailors,  and  the  wondrous  height 
Of  trees  and  scented  bales, — on  these  there  smiled 
A  radiant  Queen,  enchanted  as  a  child ! 

"  The  merchants  from  Javan,  traders  of  Tyre, 
Arabian  horsemen  with  their  cream-skinned  mares, 
Slavemen  of  Sais  who  have  bound  with  wire 
Slaves   black  as   fish-spawn, — those   who   cry   the 

wares 

Of  Persia  or  of  Kedar,— verily/' 
She  cried  with  laughter,  "  now  must  envy  me !  " 

But  Senmut,  seamed  and  sunburnt,  stood  apart 
Watching — whene'er    the    crowd    craned    necks    a 
space 

[89] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Queen's  Idyll  [CONTINUED] 

To   hark   some    foreign   parrot — how   there   would 

dart 

A  shadow  of  desolation  o'er  her  face 
And  a  strange  query  line  her  little  brows. 
So  she  rode  back  to  the  great  Double  House, 

Sighing,  "  But  where  is  he  ?  "  with  troubled  looks. 
And  then  she  called  the  temple  scribe,  to  see 
Number  and  measure  entered  in  temple  books. 
Careful  of  count,  and  grave,  was  Te-hu-ti, 
For  the  god  Horus  watched,  and  the  just  scales 
Held  Theban  Amon's  tribute  in  roped  bales. 

All  afternoon  the  measurement  went  on, 
The  checking  and  the  storing,  on  the  quays 
The  din  and  dust.    At  last  the  trees  were  drawn 
Up  the  long  dromos  to  the  terraces 
Of  the  King's  temple,  from  the  Libyan  beach. 
But  still  Senmut  came  not  and  sent  no  speech. 

And  she,  too  proud  to  question,  since  he  did 
Her  this  discourtesy,  who — hated  not 
Her  architect, — paled  lest  his  bones  be  hid 
In  some  far  desert  grave,  some  ghastly  spot 
Of  lean  cadaverous  lions.     And  then  she  said, 
"  My  other  envoy  spoke — he  is  not  dead — " 

Yet  bit  her  nails  for  doubt.     Red  evening  came, 
And  swiftly  was  blue  night.     And  many  lights 
Twinkled  afar  o'er  Thebes.     Now,  since  the  flame 
Of  day  was  cooled,  on  the  gay-awninged  heights 
[90] 


THE  QUEEN'S  IDYLL 

The  Queen's  Idyll   [CONTINUED] 

Of  flat  white  roofs  the  people  took  their  ease, 
Or  under  tamarisk  or  cedar  trees 

In  their  pooled  gardens.  But  Hatshepsut  made 
Her  favorite  baris  glide  across  the  Nile. 
At  the  river-steps  her  Nubian  guard  she  bade 
Halt  and  await  her.     And  up  the  moonlit  aisle 
Of    crouching    sphinxes,    her    likeness     in    each 

face, 
She   moved,   so   small,   yet   with   such    state    and 

grace. 

Up  past  the  first  propylons,  now  alone 
From  terrace  on  to  terrace.  There  the  night 
Showed  shadows  where  the  new  myrrh-trees  lay 

prone 

Or  stood  to  wait  the  coming  of  the  light 
When  men  should  plant  them.     At  last  the  col 
onnades 
Of  the  portico,  alternate  lights  and  shades. 

And  therewithin  to  Amon  she  abased, 
Bidding  him  take  his  own,  the  trees  of  myrrh, 
Her  gift  and  venture.    Yet  she  prayed  in  haste 
As  swift  to  somewhat  else.     He  answered  her 
Only  by  grave  full  silence.     Forth  she  stepped — 
Stood  waiting.     The  dim  stars  burned.     A  foun 
tain  wept. 

[91] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Queen's  Idyll  [CONTINUED] 

Then,  gazing  on  her  terraces  full  set 

With  "  ladders  of  myrrh  "  under  that  holy  gleam 

Of  trembling  stars — yet  with  a  wild  regret — 

Before  her  glimmering  temple,  "  O  barren  dream 

Of  loveliness !  "  she  sobbed. 

Her  lover  came 

Forth   from  the  shadows.     Senmut  breathed  her 
name. 

Pressed  close  against  his  heart,  "  Thy  words  to  me, 
Amon,  my  Father!  "  she  murmured  in  amaze. 
"  So  far  I  sought!     Yet  all  I  sought  was— he! 
And  knew  not !  " 

Thus  the  night's  dim   violet  haze 
Veils  their  embrace.     Anon,  a  lingering  breeze 
Wafts  dreamy  fragrance  from  the  incense  trees. 


[92] 


THORSTAN'S  FRIEND 


THORSTAN'S  FRIEND 

To  Laura 

Now  when  we  were  come  to  that  bright  gleam  of 

waves 

Frowned  on  by  purple  dusk,  lit  like  a  cave's 
Dim  gulph  with  fox-fire — too  malicious  lit 
Before  the  thunder  split 

Heaven  and  earth  with  shattering  peal  on  peal! — 
Under  the  canopied  dark  all  Thorstan's  steel 
Flashed  as  he  leapt  upright 
And  stood  with  folded  arms  affronting  night. 

The  great  prow  dragon-headed 
His  right  hand  clutched,  as  though  that  clutch  im 
bedded 

The  mane  of  some  proud  steed  by  prouder  master 
Praised  fiercely  for  dominion  of  disaster. 

He  spoke.     It  was  as  when  the  gull-king  cries. 
He  looked,  and  all  his  life  stood  in  his  eyes, 
And  mine  stayed  terrored  on  his  furrowed  face. 

So  we  two,  and  the  ship,  in  that  strange  place 
Were  glassed  within  the  storm's  green  evil  light. 

[98] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Thorstan's  Friend   [CONTINUED] 

Then    Thorstan    raised    both    arms    up    to    their 

height 
And  cried   "  Thor !  "    (hearing  the  thunder)    and 

cried  "Thor!" 

Dropped  arms,  and  cried  no  more. 
His  beard  like  mistletoe  lay  on  his  breast. 

There  is  one  track  that  all  our  fates  attest 
And  when  we  reach  the  end  it  is  well  known. 

So  Thorstan  cried  no  more.     He  groaned  no  groan. 
He  raised  his  head  again  and  took  my  hand. 
"  You  who  come  after,  may  you  understand !  " 
He     gazed,    mounting     the     bulwark.       Flashing 
spray 

Blinded  my  eyes.     I  turned  my  head  away. 

f 

Then  the  storm  burst.    The  dark  blew  out  the  day. 

At  the  long  last  I  lay  along  the  shore. 
Pennons  of  chilly  light  whipped  in  the  west. 
My  limbs  were  leaden  and  I  longed  for  rest. 

Vikings,  you  will  not  find  him  any  more. 
He  knew,  who  had  reached  his  end. 
To  save  him — would  a  man  not  save  his  friend 
Before  his  life?     But  this  was  other  kind. 
He  knew.     I  knew  his  mind. 

[94] 


THORSTAN'S  FRIEND 

Thorstan's  Friend   [CONTINUED] 
And  if  I  live  the  sun  again  will  rise, 
And  if  I  live  the  moon  be  in  the  skies, 
A  warm  hand  touch  me  and  a  dear  face  see ! 

With  him  the  thing  was  other.     Such  as  he 
Desire  no  crown  of  our  dull  victories.    They 
Fling  from  their  eyes  the  jeweled  glittering  spray 
Of  kingdoms  and  peer  ever  toward  the  west. 

By  such  strange. rending  hunger  dispossessed 
Of  steed,  of  store  and  stead,  of  wife  and  bairn, 
Thorstan's  gnarled  body  in  some  sandy  cairn 
Under  the  shifting  tides  lies  turquoise-eyed. 

But  that,  the  ghost  in  Thorstan,  doth  not  bide 
By  wet  or  dry  or  where  we  feel  the  air. 
This  heart  within  me  knows  it  is  not  there. 
(My  friend,  my  friend,  my  friend!) 
This  heart  says,  crying,  it  is  not  the  end. 
Bringing  no  peace,  it  says — yet  says  and  says; 
For  here — here  was  the  parting  of  our  ways. 
I  cannot  know — but  he?     ... 
Broad  lies  the  light  along  the  level  sea. 


[95] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  BALLAD  OF  TAILLEFER 

To  Elinor  Wylie 

ON  the  judgment  seat  of  Alfred, 
Acclaimed  by  churl  and  thane, 
Sat  Harold  the  son  of  Godwin 
With  the  sword  of  Athelstane, — 
The  Earl  of  the  West  Saxons, 
With  Edward  in  his  mind, 
Harold,  Lord  of  Britain, 
King  of  the  English  kind. 

In  Rouen  fumed  Duke  William 
And  swore  this  should  not  be, 
By  the  Mount  of  the  Archangel, 
By  the  saints  of  Normandy; 
And  Tostig,  Harold's  brother, 
Northumbria's  banished  earl, 
Spake  with  Harold  Hardrada 
And  saw  his  fierce  lip  curl. 

So  the  Norse  returned  to  England 
With  fire  and  sword,  and  found 
One  gift  from  the  golden  Dragon — 
Seven  feet  of  English  ground! 
[96] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  TAILLEFER 

The  Ballad  of  Taillefer   [CONTINUED] 

A  shield  wall  by  Gate  Fulford, 
Thick  spears  on  a  windy  ridge, 
The  last  of  the  ancient  sea-kings 
Routed  at  Stamfordbridge. 

But  below  the  Picard  river 

The  south  wind  came  at  last 

To  the  sails   of  all  Duke  William's  ships. 

His  ships  were  sailing  fast 

North  on  the  misty  channel 

When  stars  were  glittering, 

And  under  the  Mora's  lantern 

One  knight  sang  to  the  king. 

Taillefer,  Cleaver  of  Iron, 
Bearing  a  name  for  the  strong, — 
Yet  Taillefer,  youth  of  laughter, 
Thrilling  the  night  with  a  song 
Of  Charlemagne  and  Roland, 
Of  a  horn  that  mocked  despair, 
With  a  voice  of  youth  and  victory — 
Taillefer !     Taillefer ! 

Brooding  the  Conqueror  watched  him 
And  his  rapt  uplifted  face, 
Light  of  the  eyes  that  challenged, 
Freedom  and  strength  and  grace, 
Merry,  untouched  by  evil, 
Open  and  frank  and  kind; 

[97] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Ballad  of  Taillefer   [CONTINUED] 
And  a     serpent  stirred  in  the  darkness 
That  filled  Duke  William's  mind. 

Through  the  wet  wave  at  Pevensey 

The  armed  host  threshed  to  shore, 

And  the  Duke  would  first  have  reached  the  land 

But  a  light  step  leapt  before 

First  on  the  coast  of  England 

Bareheaded  with  blowing  hair 

Bounded  that  unleashed  leopard 

The  young  knight,  Taillefer. 

Sudden  abashed  and  halted 

By  the  Conqueror's  loud  commands 

He  paused.    Duke  William  tripped  and  fell, 

The  earth  in  his  two  hands. 

"  So  I  take  seizin  of  England !  " 

He  cried  with  a  surly  glare, 

Yet  caught  youth's  impish  laughter 

In  the  eyes  of  Taillefer. 

Now  a  thane  rode  to  King  Harold 
With  tidings  strange  indeed, 
And  Harold  marched  for  London 
Ere  the  man  had  turned  his  steed, 
Calling  aloud  to  the  muster 
All  sons  of  English  sires. 
The  Dragon  and  the  Fighting  Man 
Flamed  southward  through  the  shires. 
[98] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  TAILLEFER 

The  Ballad  of  Taillefer   [CONTINUED] 
And  southward  from  London  muster 
And  the  rood  in  Waltham's  fane 
Levies  pressed  to  the  Standard 
Of  the  troops  that  met  the  Dane, 
Till  they  stood  on  the  heights  of  Senlac 
From  all  the  shires  and  towns, 
Battleaxe  men  and  darters 
High  on  a  spur  of  the  downs. 

And  south  on  the  Hill  of  Heathland 
Duke  William,  peering,  vowed 
A  minster  to  St.  Martin 
Where  the  English  gleamed  like  cloud. 
To  the  blessing  of  Bishop  Odo 
Knelt  men  from  Boulogne  and  Maine, 
Poitevin,  Breton,  Picard, 
That  their  hope  be  not  in  vain. 

So  the  night  passed.     The  morning 

Grew  gray  in  the  chilly  air. 

The  Conqueror  summoned  to  his  tent 

The  young  knight  Taillefer. 

"  Youth  would  go  first !  "     He  eyed  him. 

"  Rashness  best  fits  the  fray. 

Singer  of  songs  of  daring 

Lead  thou  the  van  today !  " 

With  open  eyes  of  wonder 
Youth  faced  embittered  craft. 

[99] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Ballad  of  Taillefer   [CONTINUED] 
Then,  in  a  flash  of  vision, 
Sudden  the  young  knight  laughed, 
And  a  shaft  of  early  sunlight 
Struck  gold  from  his  tangled  hair. 
"  By  the  banner  of  the  Apostle, 
Yea,  sire !  "  cried  Taillefer. 

So  beyond  Telham  northward 
The  Norman  knighthood  rode. 
Billmen  and  jerkined  archers 
Through  marsh  and  wasteland  strode. 
Toustain  the  White  with  the  banner 
Bright  glimmering  through  the  haze, 
Odo  in  gleaming  armor 
By  the  Bastard  of  Falaise. 

There  was  to  cross  the  English  fosse 
And  then  the  host  stood  still 
Where  that  ash-woven  barricade 
Frowned  from  the  sloping  hill. 
A  burthened  pause  ere  battle 
About  the  hour  of  prime, 
And  sunlight  burst  upon  the  downs, 
A  lark  began  to  climb, 

And  out  from  the  Norman  vanguard 
Tossing  his  lance  on  high, 
Unhelmeted,  unheralded 
Under  the  open  sky, 
[100] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  TAILLEFER 

The  Ballad  of  Taillefer   [CONTINUED] 

On  a  charger  that  stepped  like  dancing, 
With  a  song  for  all  to  share, 
A  vivid  flame  in  the  sunlight 
Rode  the  minstrel  Taillefer. 


Taillefer,  Cleaver  of  Iron, 
Bearing  a  name  for  the  strong, 
Yet  Taillefer,  lord  of  laughter 
Thrilling  the  day  with  a  song 
Of  Charlemagne  and  Roland, 
Of  one  hour  that  mocked  despair, 
With  a  glorious  voice  of  victory — 
Taillefer!     Taillefer! 


Swift  flew  the  sleet  of  arrows 
As  the  English  trumpets  blew. 
Up  surged  the  host  of  the  Normans. 
Blood  glinted  on  the  dew. 
Warriors  of  Kent  and  Essex 
Shouted  defiance  back. 
Hildebrand's  flaming  ensign 
Mounted  to  the  attack. 


But  he  tossed  his  lance  and  caught  it 
As  his  charger  caracoled, 
And  high  over  horn  and  battle-cry 
His  ringing  singing  rolled 

[101] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Ballad  of  Taillefer  [CONTINUED] 
Taunting,  immortal,  haunting, 
Snp<**b  oh  the  sunlit  air, 
A  gauntlet  flung  in  the  teeth  of  Death — 
•  j  •  t  J  •?.       Taillefer !    Taillefer ! 

Then  they  saw  him  reel  in  the  saddle 
And  clutch  at  the  saddle  bow 
And  the  fight  closed  on  the  hill  crest 
With  curse  and  clashing  blow, 
Till  at  length  on  a  blinded  Harold 
The  shades  of  Senlac  close 
And  deep  in  the  heart  of  England 
Burns  the  spear  of  her  foreign  foes. 

And  so  wars  come  and  so  wars  pass — 

God  knows  what  end  to  wars! 

Rapine  and  craft  and  murder 

Under  the  quiet  stars. 

Voice  of  Youth's  clearer  vision, 

O  trumpet  against  despair, 

Lift  us  to  surer  victory — 

Taillefer!     Taillefer! 


[102] 


ON  WEBBE,  ENGLISH  GUNNER 


ON  EDWARD  WEBBE,  ENGLISH 
GUNNER 

His   troublesome  travailes 

HE  met  the  Danske  pirates  off  Tuttee ; 

Saw  the  Chrim  burn  "  Musko  " ;  speaks  with  bated 

breath 

Of  his  sale  to  the  great  Turk,  when  peril  of  death 
Chained  him  to  oar  their  galleys  on  the  sea 
Until,  as  gunner,  in  Persia  they  set  him  free 
To  fight  their  foes.     Of  Prester  John  he  saith 
Astounding  things.     But  Queen  Elizabeth 
He  worships,  and  his  dear  Lord  on  Calvary. 

Quaint  is  the  phrase,  ingenuous  the  wit 
Of  this  great  childish  seaman  in  Palestine, 
Mocked  home  through  Italy  after  his  release 
With  threats  of  the  Armada ;  and  all  of  it 
Warms  me  like  firelight  jeweling  old  wine 
In  some  ghost  inn  hung  with  the  golden  fleece! 


[103] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  PRIEST  IN  THE  DESERT 

To  Douglas  Duer 
New  Mexico — Sixteenth  Century 

BLOOD  stained  the  purple  panoply,  blood  smirched 

the  holy  zeal 
When   Mexico   long,  long  ago  learned  God  from 

grim  Castile. 
Great  green-plumed  Montezuma's  folk  writhed  in 

a  roaring  flame. 
For  this — remembrance  in  our  hearts,  remembrance 

that  is  shame. 

Yet,  with  no  captained  companies,  when  Cortez's 

fame  burned  far, 
High  Marquis  of  the  Valley  under  the  Western 

Star,— 
With  no  cuirasses  ringing,  no  pomp  of  banner  and 

sword, 
Into  the  unknown  North  went  forth  plain  men  who 

served  the  Lord. 

The  seven  golden  cities  miraged  the  golden  sand, 
But  serpents  crowned  fire-ringed  them  round,  black 

angels  held  that  land. 

[104] 


THE  PRIEST  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  Priest  in  the  Desert   [CONTINUED] 

Still  Coronado's  canyon  yawns  a  chasm  of  awe  and 

dread 
Wherein  pulse  wizard  blues  of  noon  and  Hell-pits 

crumbling  red; 

And  rumored  grotesque  monsters,  rock-realms  of 
devilish  beasts 

On  gorgeous  painted  mesas,  seemed  gospel  to  the 
priests. 

Infamous  demons  flapped  the  waste  on  black  Sa 
tanic  wings 

With  sulphurous  breath  of  hideous  death.  All 
men  believed  these  things. 

So  once,  in  more  than  Hell's  despite,  north  strode 
Fray  Estevan, 

North  from  the  New  Galicia,  scourged  by  the  blaz 
ing  dawn, 

Sand  burning  through  his  sandals, — far-clumped 
mesquit  and  sage 

Mazing  his  sneezing  burro's  steps, — the  skyline 
quivering  rage. 

"  Deus  in  adjutorium  meum  intende   ...    /  "    Now 
The  first  five  Joyful  Mysteries  smoothed  clear  his 

lifted  brow. 
At  Prime  he  said  his   office  through  with   fitting 

psalms  and  prayers, 
Though  the  sun  a  brazen  giant  clomb  his  Heaven's 

golden  stairs. 

[105] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Priest  in  the  Desert   [CONTINUED] 

That   brazen   giant   lolled    and   gazed   upon   him, 

jowl  on  hands. 
Tarantula  and  scorpion  crept  rustling  through  the 

sands. 
When  he  said  Tierce  he  felt  the  fierce  scorn  of 

those  barbarous  skies. 
When  at  the  next  he  came  to  Sext,  all  round  flamed 

lions'  eyes. 

At  None  his  thought,  by  small  food  stayed,  wist 
fully  strayed  to  Spain. 

He  saw  the  sanctuary  lamp,  the  tall  wax-lights 
again; 

He  saw  the  tabernacle  veil  crimson  for  Pentecost, 

The  censers  swinging  at  High  Mass,  the  lifting 
of  the  Host. 

Fray  Estevan,  the  Jesuit,  wandered  through  clois 
ters  cool. 

He  stopped  to  watch  a  mouthing  carp  gulp  from 
the  garden  pool. 

He  heard  his  Novice-master's  voice,  he  chanted 
from  his  stall.  ... 

Yet  on  from  None  he  trod  alone  waste  sands  till 
Evenfall! 

The  colors   from  far  mesas  died,  blue  mountains 

turned  to  black. 
Ineffable  a  cooler  air  breathed  down  the  desert 

track. 

[106] 


THE  PRIEST  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  Priest  in  the  Desert   [CONTINUED] 

At  Vespers  there  were  stars  above — and  shadows 
long  and  high. 

The  cactus  took  mysterious  forms  under  the  eve 
ning  sky! 

Wild  treasure-cities,  he  had  heard,  crowded  those 

cliffs  so  far. 
Weird  mythologic   beast  and  bird   shrieked  there 

to  sun  and  star. 
The  reek  of  mad  blood-sacrifice  sickened  his  sense 

afresh, 
All  devilish  and  ghoulish  things  wrought  on  the 

shrinking  flesh. 

His  burro  sneezed  again,  behind;  gray  gophers 
whisked  aside; 

Screamed  a  blue-headed  pinyon-jay;  a  far  coyote 
cried. 

Then — stillness  and  the  myriad  stars,  the  swish- 
swish  of  the  sand, — 

And  Satan's  dark  familiars  prowling  the  desolate 
land! 

He  told  his  beads  the  three  times  through,  striv 
ing  with  silent  dread: 

Pater  Noster,  Ave  Maria,  each  added  Gloria  said. 

His  mind  clove  to  the  Mysteries,  down  to  Our 
Lady  Crowned. 

Less  loudly  raced  his  heart,  his  feet  more  firmly 
gripped  the  ground. 

[107] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Priest  in  the  Desert   [CONTINUED] 

Then,  in  the  solitary  night,  he  touched  his  burro's 

back. 
The  altar  stone  lay  safely  there,  the  relic  in  the 

pack,— 
Chalice  and  paten  and  altar  wine, — safe  were  the 

wafers  too, 
And   alb   and   stole   and  maniple.      Courage   from 

each  he  drew. 

Ah,  clearly  shone  his  sacred  hour!     He  saw  the 

Bishop  stand    ... 
In  awe  once  more  he  gazed  upon — his  consecrated 

hand. 
Bronzed?     In  moonlight?     Not  swathed  in  white? 

.    .    .     Yet  fierce-white  blazed  that  tryst 
With  Heaven!     His  heart  leapt,  feeling  still  the 

glorious  yoke  of  Christ. 

So,  lips  apart  as  if  for  song,  once  more  he  raised 

his  eyes. 
Above  the  eternal  star-sown  worlds  unfolded  deeper 

skies 
Even   to  that   white   bewildering   Throne   whence 

healing  thrills  on  men. 
"  Deus  in  adjutorium — /  "  his  lips  began  again. 


[108] 


EUGENIE'S  SOLITAIRE 


EUGENIE'S  SOLITAIRE 

To  Kathleen  Norris 

IN  a  yellow  room 

Till  past  mid-night, 

A  scarf  of  black  lace 

Across  white  hair 

And  around  her  face 

That,  on  blue  gloom 

Or  in  pale  light, 

Swims  ivory-clear, 

She  of  the  fluttering  parchment  hands 

Plays  solitaire. 


The  clock  tocks. 

Each  long  black  pane 

Streams  with  the  rain. 

Against  the  fire 

The  fire-irons'  brass 

Glitters  like  glass, 

Or  gold,  or  vain 

Desire. 

The  cards  are  laid, 

The  cards  are  laid 

As  breaths  respire. 

[109] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Eugenie's  Solitaire   [CONTINUED] 

White  and  exact 

On  green  baize 

The  lady  lays 

Her  cards. 

Her  hand  hovers 

To  see 

What  the  card  covers. 

She 

Thinks  swift  small  thoughts 

Of  temper — of  tact, — 

Quickens  her  hand 

Or  retards, 

Shifting  the  ill-planned  pattern  of  the  cards. 

On  each  card's  back 
Is  a  gold  crown 
And  golden  curlicues, 
A  web  design. 
The  cards  shine 
Brittle  as  glass,  as  she 
Lays  them  down 
Like  a  person  paying  dues: 
King — knave — 
(You  see?) 

A  heart — a  spade  for  a  grave — 
A  club  for  a  crown — 
A  diamond  to  brave 
The  rabble,  like  renown, — 
[110] 


EUGENIE'S  SOLITAIRE 

Eugenie's  Solitaire  [CONTINUED] 

But  not  to  save! 
As  the  eyes  smart, 
A  spade,  a  heart, 
She  lays  them  down. 

Red — black, 

A  Queen — a  Jack, 

A  Heart — a  Spade, — 

Black— Red, 

A  Club — A  Diamond  instead! 

They  are  laid. 

The  light  flickers; 

The  room  widens; 

The  walls  fade: 

Flaring  and  blazing  chandeliers, 

Conversational  surf  seething  beneath  the  lights. 

Ices,  spilt  wine; 

Floors  that  shine 

Like  glass;  a  uniform 

With  a  crinoline,  that  nears; 

Bright  eyes,  bright  lips, — 

Bright  mockeries,  bright  nights, 

And  the  golden  bees  aswarm, — 

And  the  fears,  and  the  fears! 

Her  hand  hovers 
To  see 

[111] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Eugenie's  Solitaire   [CONTINUED] 

What  the  card  covers. 

She 

Purses  her  lips  to  imaginary  roses 

In  Spain  again; 

Then  the  thought  closes 

Like  a  black  box-lid  in  her  mind. 

Her  eyes  swim  blind, 

As  her  hand 

Quickens  its  fluttering  movement,  or  retards 

That  gesture  of  a  sunny,  gallant  land. 

Red — black   (And  the   rain!) 

Blood — death,  France  and  Spain! 

Erectly  now,  imperial  again 

In  her  midnight  dress, 

Exact  and  passionless, 

She  plays  the  cards. 


[112] 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION 

1914 

WHAT  am  I  saying,  Katti?    Yes,  it's  good, 

The   claret.      This   room   is   just   the   same,   nicht 

tvahr? 

Its  walls  do  not  dissolve?     Plaster  and  wood 
Somehow  cohere,  my  dear.     So  here  we  are, 
You  and  I,  facing,  thinking,  and  the  storm 
About  to  break.     Old  friend,  we're  safe  and  warm 
Just  for  an  instant,  though  the  world  without 
Topples    to    crash.      Yes,    I'll    lie    down.      A-ah, 

thanks ! 

Just  for  a  little.     An  old  man  with  the  gout — 
All  that  is  left.     All  Europe  forming  ranks 
For  such  a  war  as  I  foresee  and  dread. 
So — you  arrange  a  cushion  for  my  head. 
Dankel    I'll  try  to  doze.    But  the  closed  eye 
Knows   the   house   falling,   Katti.      One   builds   it 

high, 

Yet  only  like  a  house  of  cards  it  stands 
Falling  forever,  slipping  through  my  hands 
That  are  grown  so  feeble.     Do  I  hear  a  clock 
Striking?     It  seems  to  mock — it  seems  to  mock 
This   house   of   shadows — and   how    the    shadows 

spread ! 

[113] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination  [CONTINUED] 
The  purgatory  of  the  unredeemed 
Uplifts  its  myriad  hands   to  clutch;  the  dead 
White  faces  writhe;  and  every  night  I've  dreamed 
Such  ghastly  dreams    .    .    .   until  at  last  she  stands 
(For  all  the  madhouse  whirl,  for  all  the  sorrow!) 
A  cluster  of  white  orchids  in  her  hands, 
And  there  is  peace  a  little — until  tomorrow. 
(Not  like  the  woman  in  white,  who  also  comes 
Under  the  raven's  wings !)  Elizabeth, 
Listen!     (No,  no  cessation  from  the  drums 
That  roll  and  roll  and  roll  us  down  to  death!) 
But — where  you  are — you  can  forgive,  and  see 
All  you  are  now,  all  you  are  now  to  me. 

So  beautiful,  so  straight  upon  her  horse, 
Backing  "  The  Boy  "  superbly,  fearless  still 
And  thoroughbred  to  finish  out  the  course 
For  all  the  slipping  avalanche  of  ill; 
Thirst  like  a  Cziko's  for  the  open  plain — 
Halloo,  hoof-thunder,  and  the  loosened  rein, — 
But  delicate,  fragile,  cold,  the  edelweiss 
That  drinks  the  sun  on  glacial  glares  of  ice; 
At  last — Luccheni,  by  the  Mont  Blanc  quay 
Under  a  heaven  as  blue  as  the  blue  lake, 
The  boat  so  near. 

It  aches  so  terribly, 

One  wonders  how  the  heart  can  fail  to  break. 
Beast!    How  we  suffer!    Beast!    The  sky  above 
Clear  as  her  eyes,  pure  as  their  trust  and  love ! 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 
Ah  dear,  recall  Corfu, — your  villa  there 
Against  the  hill ;  the  rose-field,  the  sea-wall 
Rose-marble;  on  that  purely  glittering  air 
Your  heavenly  cadences  that  rise  and  fall 
Reading  from  Heine  in  your  templed  nook 
With  sunlight  patterns  shifting  on  the  book. 

Life  was,  well  say,  a  puzzle.    It  resembled 
These  scroll-work  German  toys,  some  print  or  map 
On  wood,  all  cut  apart  to  be  assembled 
With  hair-like  lines  that  scarcely  show  the  gap 
If  the  hands  firmly  press — but  delicate 
Of  touch  lest,  with  the  merest  knock  or  nudge, 
The  pieces  fidget  loose.     Such  was  the  State 
And  is.     This  Nationalism,  every  grudge 
Engendered,  and — the  hands  of  power  have  spasms. 
Crevices  show,  till  crevices  are  chasms. 
Hungarian,  Italian,  Croatian, 
Serbian,  all  the  pieces  of  the  nation 
In  such  a  maze  of  jointures,  joggling  loose! 
One  needs  to  be  a  connoiseur  of  glues. 
My  life  has  just  been  dabbing  every  part 
With  bayonet-bristled  brushes.     Is  it  true 
Such  brushes  are  too  stiff?     One  trusts  the  heart 
Too  little?     This  Humanitarian  glue 
Seems  thin  and  pale.     I  always  understood 
The  best  cement  was  blood.     You  told  me  blood, 
Mother,  my  tutors,  my  marshals,  all  those  leading ! 
Like  old-time  surgery,  the  cure  was  bleeding. 

[115] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 
As  to  my  figure,  some  pieces  interlock 
Naturally,  it  seems.     They  felt  the  shock, 
In  Serbia,  for  example,  when  we  pried 
Herzegovina,  Bosnia,  from  her  side 
To  fit  them  otherwise.    Well,  I  have  tried. 

After  Sadowa,  we  should  have  formed  a  state 

With  all  the  Jugoslavs  incorporate 

In  amity.     By  the  Hungarian  pact 

We  ruined  all.     Now  I  perceive  the  fact. 

Language,  religion,  all  we  undermined 

To  cut  the  wild  Serb  growth  whose  roots  entwined 

So  fatally,  we  thought,  the  Magyar  kind 

And  Austria's  power.     At  last  we  could  not  shun 

That  solemn  rising  of  the  Balkan  sun, 

Serbia  goaded  champion  in  the  lists. 

Yet  the  Archduke  they  slew  saw  through  the  mists 

A  third  power  in  the  empire  must  have  place. 

We  builded  pomps  of  mist  without  a  base 

Save  on  the  slaughtered  bodies  of  a  race 

That  heave  the  empire  over,  dying  not. 

So  there  came  plot  and  plot  and  counterplot 

And  the  mailed  fist,  and  mouths  that  out  of  Hell 

Grin  their  revenge,  with  taunts  I  cannot  quell! 

Such  is  an  empire.     So  an  emperor  reigns. 
Not  just  gold  candelabra  and  court-trains, 
Uniforms,  orders,  jewels;  a  bloody  cross, 
Rather, — loss  on  irreparable  loss, 
[116] 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination  [CONTINUED] 
And  archdukes  gibbering  with  a  madhouse  leer, 
Who  should  have  aided.     It  is  a  house  of  fear 
And  shade,  like  Sternberg  with  its  gondola-throned 
Blood-royal  inmate,  where  mad  Ludwig  moaned. 
So,  dear,  you  fled  to  Biarritz,  Bruckenau, 
Yschl  or  Ireland, — kept  your  youth  somehow. 
My  mother  sneered;  even  Charlotte,  I  aver, 
Was  jealous — there  too!    But  who  was  not,  of  her 
Who  wished  none  harm,  not  even  the  anarchist. 
Charlotte!    But  though  I  hear  her,  I  resist 
The  wild  indictment. 

That  white  road  seems  to  twist 
Above  the  Adriatic,  skirts  the  coast 
Over  the  sparkling  blue,  and  then,  almost 
A  league  from  Trieste,  past  villas  flashing  white, 
The  sea-road  ends,  and  Miramar's  in  sight, 
The  castled  crag  that  holds  such  secrets  close. 
A  coup  d'etat  indeed !     But  then  suppose 
He  had  returned  as  Emperor?     The  folk 
Wanted  my  abdication.     So  I  spoke 
To  the  Baron  over  there.     To  think,  with  grief, 
'Twas,  after  all,  de  Moray's  base,  black  heart; 
As  Bismarck  said,  "  That  amiable  thief !  " 
The  usurer  Jecker,  the  upstart  Bonaparte, — 
And  so  they  sold  out  Max,  and,  on  the  day 
I  took  the  crown  in  Buda.     .    .    . 

A-ah,  they   say 

Just  what  they  please,  despite!     'Twas  the  De 
cree — 

[117] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 
For  that  they  shot  him!     My  note  exonerates  me. 
I'd  have  returned  his  rights  of  the  succession 
Had  he  been  freed;  so  why — feel — this  oppression 
Upon  my  chest?     Such  smothering!     .    .    .     'Tis 

avouched 

He  stretched  his  hand,  and  every  murderer  pouched 
A  golden  coin.     He  cried,  "  Aim  surely,  aim, 
Muchachos,  here!  " — hand  on  his  heart.     How  lame 
Our  schemes  are,  sometimes.     He  had  that  other 

trick 

I  hated,  though, — running  long  fingers  slick 
Back  through  his  flaxen  hair.     Eyes  of  a  girl! 

Benedek  and  Sadowa  ?    Yes,  there  too.     .    .    . 
But  I  must  fold  my  arms  against  this  whirl 
Of  accusation.     If  we  only  knew 
What  this  new  murder  means !     They'll  not  accede 
To  such  gross  terms — they'll  never.    Ah,  poor  fool 
Of  Sarajevo!     Boy,  you  simply  freed 
The  waiting  lever.    Germany  must  rule. 
Back  to  Charles  Fifth  and  Francis,  and  we  face 
The  Gaul  against  the  strong  Germanic  race. 
Louis  Fifteenth  felt  Austria  better  neighbors? 
That  was  but  once.     Those  days  seem  idle  labors. 
When  Francis  bid  for  Maximilian's  crown 
And  lost,  this  centuried  blood  in  which  we  drown 
Was  brewed  for  broaching.     Now  at  last  it  runs 
Red  from  the  spigots  of  our  great  steel  guns. 
[118] 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 
One  could  not  change  the  blood.     The  blood  was 

bad. 
It  must  be  drawn — though  all  the  world  go  mad ! 

It  is  no  dream.    Was  Meyerling  a  dream, 

And    Rudie's    murder?      The   whole   long    fateful 

scheme 

Of  sorrow  on  sorrow's  head  so  wearies  me.     .    .    . 
What  do  I  hear?    What  do  I  seem  to  see? 

The  great  black  bloodhound  whines  at  the  door, 
Sniffs,  sniffs,  sniffs  'neath  the  throne-room  door, 

Whining  "  War !    War !    War !  " 
Pads  down  each  corridor,  stands  at  each  stair. 
As  I  pass  my  chancellor — he  is  there. 
In  the  great  cathedral,  kneeling  at  prayer, 
As  I  lift  my  eyes  to  the  holy  altar, 
In  the  midst  of  the  nave — he  is  there ! 

My  shoulders  shudder,  my  phrases  falter. 

As  I  drive  down  the  Ringstrasse  (guards  of  pride 

Plumed  and  cuirassed,  riding  beside) 

Close  within  their  ranks,  where  I  turn  my  scowl, 

Is  the  great  black  head  and  the  onyx  glare 

Of  those  two  wild  eyes,  and  the  slaverous  jowl 

With  its  lolled  red  tongue.    He  is  there,  he  is  there ! 

Catherine,  Catherine,  did  you  dream 

What  still  the  Russian  dreams?     Your  school 

Of  nation-building  saw  the  gleam 

From  the  far-off  turrets  of  Stamboul. 

[119] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 

Even  then, — aye,  even  then 

Your  yellow  hand  came  clutching  forth 

From  your  fastness  in  the  North, 

On  Bulgaria  set  your  mark 

And  withdrew  into  the  dark 

Caldron  of  your  plots  again. 

Dog  that  whines,  dog  that  cries, — 
Catherine,  he  has  Poland's  eyes. 
"  Light  came  forth 
From  the  North." 

Aye,  Voltaire, — and  lightning  comes. 
Harken,  I  can  hear  the  drums, 
Hear  the  wild  "  Kol  Slaven  "  rise. 
Vultures  breed  in  Northern  skies. 

You  too  drained  the  cup  I  drain, 
Iron,  red  with  battle-stain, 
(Hohenlinden,  Austerlitz, 
Wagram,  huge  Napoleon, 
And  the  deathly  gray  of  dawn!) 
Son  of  Leopold,  you  knew 
More  than  I  have  travailed  through; 
But  the  brilliant  reptile  wits 
Of  Prince  Metternich  availed 
Had  Louisa's  marriage  failed. 
Nay,  this  is  a  snarling  mood; 
Yet — your  Christian  Brotherhood! 
Are  alliances  like  these? 
[120] 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 

Peace,  peace,  and  there  is  no  peace! 

Do  I  doubt  of  dynasties? 

Is  my  wandering  brain  so  wild? 

Never — hush ! 

But  I  recall, 

By  my  archduke  father's  side 
When — in  youth  (one  day  of  all 
Burnt  in  fire  upon  my  mind !) 
In  a  chapel  cool  and  kind 
'Neath  a  cross  where  Christ  had  died 
I  knelt  down    .    .    .    and  saw  a  dove 
Pass  athwart  a  censer  swinging; 
And  the  sound  of  children  singing; 
And  a  holy  rose  of  love 
Spread  its  petals  in  my  heart, 
Whispering,  "  You  are  but  a  part 
Of  an  hundred  warring  nations. 
Spread  my  love  among  them^  child, — 
Bring  them  to  their  free  salvations, 
Save  my  people,  rude  and  wild!  " 

Well,  ah  well !    But  what  ablution 

Granted,  for  that  "  Constitution," 

To  these  dark  and  stained  hands? 

Then  I  planned  the  risen  lands. 

Grant  it,  God!     None  understands.     .    .    . 

Fight  the  Russian  'gainst  the  Prussian, 

Fight  the  Prussian  'gainst  the  Russian ; 

[121] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination  [CONTINUED] 
Austria  must  have  what  is  hers; 
Might  makes  right! 

Yes,  ministers, 

Chatter  on!     But  it  was  dark 
In  that  maze.     I — missed  the  mark. 

No,  Berchtold,  no!     Say  not  we  ever  sold 

Our  spoils — Schleswig,  Venetia — for  base  gold. 

We  gave  them  over,  ours  to  lose  outright. 

(By  Bismarck's  theft!)     And  Lissa  sends  a  light 

O'er  Europe,  Baron!     On  the  other  hand 

Was  Albert — like  Radetsky — on  the  land, 

And  won  Custozza,  ere  the  princely  fates 

Ended  those  bloody  weeks  at  Konniggratz. 

(Shadow  of  Sadowa!    Forty  thousand  dead! 

There,  as  at  Solferino,  blood  was  shed.) 

Yes,  Count  Cavour,  I  hear  you.     You  make  free 
With  your  reiteration,  "  Liberty !  " 
Italy?     I  remember  Italy. 
7*  it  not  branded  on  the  soul  of  me? 
The  Quadrilateral — four  forts,  you  see, 
Upon  which  forts  turned  all  our  strategy.     .    .    . 
What  are  you  saying,  Count?     Well,  give  it  vent! 
Even  as  Denmark  ?    But  at  Prague  I  meant 
Good  things  for  Schleswig !    It  was  my  intent.  .  .  . 
Ah  no — no!     God  is  right.     'Tis  little  use 
To  palsy  penitence  with  vain  excuse. 
I  am  too  old,  too  old! 
[122] 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  HALLUCINATION 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 

Peace  ?     Can  the  Hague 

Make  true  the  ruined  hopes  I  built  at  Prague  ? 
Prussia  is  very  strong — oh,  very  strong! 
Auffenberg  needs  her.     Life  is  much  too  long. 
I  should  have  leave  to  die.     How  hugely  spent, 
Those  Reichstag  revenues:  massed  armament: 
And  voting  more.     And  England?     War-engrossed 
Since  the  first  heretoga  led  his  host. 

Why  are  you  silent,  Berchtold?     Do  you  find 
Jebusites  man  our  walls,  the  halt  and  blind? 
Your  smile  does  not  deceive.    What  can  we  do  ? 
You  know  this  Nationalism.     So  you  too 
Must  answer  for  the  juggernaut  that  comes. 
The  Serb  pot  has  seethed  over.    A  few  crumbs 
Of  comfort  thrown  into — a  tiger's  den. 
That  for  your  altruist!     Men  are  but  men. 
The  better  rule.     The  ignorant  must  obey. 

Yes,  yes  I  know,  ghosts,  what  you  wish  to  say ! 
Yes,  yes  I  know,  phantoms !     Your  writhen  lips 
Mouth  well  enough  the  bitter  word  that  slips 
Poisoned  from  deep-stirred  peasant  hearts.     But  I 
Have  labored  for  you.     .    .    .     Curse  me,  then,  and 

die! 
The    royal    dead,    the    House    that    weighs    me 

down.     .    .    . 

This  is  the  crown  of  kings,  the  Iron  Crown ! 

[123] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

In  the  House  of  Hallucination   [CONTINUED] 

So !     Is  he  whining  at  the  door, 

Still  sniffing  beneath  the  throne-room  door? 

Whining  and  snarling,  "  War !    War !    War !  " 

Nay,  God,  he  is  howling  "  War!    War!    War!  " 

All  through  the  Hofburg,  wild  and  dismaying 

The  black  bloodhound  is  leaping  and  baying, 

Along  the  corridors,  down  the  halls, 

Through  the  Volkesgarten,  over  streets  and  walls, 

Clear  to  the  Prater,  leaping  and  running, 

Mad  with  life  again,  loosed  from  cunning; 

Nose  to  the  ground  and  tracking  Death 

With  a  swinging  stride  and  a  growling  breath; 

Toward  the  Carpathians  hungrily, 

From  Cracow  on — on  to  the  Baltic  Sea; 

From  the  Tyrol  to  Calais  hoarsely  growling 

Over  all  Europe  foaming  and  howling 

"WAR!    WAR!    WAR!" 

So,  Hound,  you  settle  one  old,  old  score; 
And  then — or  what  are  we  Emperors  for? — 
Till  the  end  of  the  world,  more  wars  and  more, 
More  wars  and  more! 


[124] 


THE  SILVER  BALLOON 


THE  SILVER  BALLOON 

1915 

THE  soubrette's  song  still  echoing  in  his  ears, 
The  footlight  dazzle  still  upon  his  eyes, 
He  craned  to  look,  and  saw  the  blinded  skies 
Yield  what  the  searchlight  sought.     Great  shafts 

like  shears 
Raked  west  and  east.      "  How  calm  that  beggar 

steers!" 

He  thought,  appraising  with  but  small  surprise 
The  floating  doom.     Two  aeroplanes  like  flies 
Crawled  up  the  stars     ...    it  seemed  for  years 

and  years. 

The  searchlights  dimmed.     The  four-point-sevens 

spoke. 

The  great  bulk  lurched  a  little,  loosed  a  speck, — 
And      from      the      crowd      fierce      pandemonium 

broke.     .    .    . 

He  saw  no  bomb,  no  flare,  no  toppling  wreck, 
But — in  his  mind — Kensington  Garden  noons, 
And  an  old  woman  selling  toy  balloons. 


[125] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  FLYING  CASTLE 

WHEN  white  canvas  towered  in  tiers 
From  the  sealine,  cloud  by  cloud ; 
When  from  roadstead  out  to  offing 
All  the  seas  gleamed  thick  with  fame, 
In  from  Java  and  the  East, 
From  the  lairs  of  god  and  beast, 
With  a  wake  like  mermaids  dancing, 
Aymar's  Flying  Castle  came. 

She  was  laid  in  Port  o'  Moonbeams, 
She  was  launched  in  Noah's  prime, 
She  seemed  older  than  the  triremes 
As  we  peered  from  headland  grass. 
In  her  hold  was  gold  and  cedar 
Out  of  Tarshish,  Tyre  and  Edar 
And  she  trailed  a  bannered  sunset 
On  a  tide  like  burning  glass. 

Aymar,  Master  of  the  Cove, 
Every  salty  shipwright  knew, 
Everywhere  a  rope  was  rove 
Or  a  mate  signed  on  a  crew; 
Trim  white  house  with  hollyhocks, 
Walk  of  shells  and  hedge  of  box ; 
[126] 


MASTER  OF  FLYING  CASTLE 

The  Master  of  the  Flying  Castle   [CONTINUED" 
Meet  him  rolling  down  to  harbor, 
Buttons  blazing  from  his  blue. 

Bought  a  black  in  Mozambique, 
Some  outlandish  port  of  call; 
Brought  him  home  that  very  week 
When  we  watched  her  tower  so  tall; 
Be  a  gardener  for  the  lady, 
Keep  her  little  garden  close. 
How  we  watched  him  weed  of  mornings 
With  the  bangle  in  his  nose. 
Soon  enough  the  Flying  Castle 
Faced  the  seas  where  Auster  blows. 

Talked  like  Choctaw,  did  the  black; 
Lifted  gentle  dark  dog's  eyes. 
But  we  scouted  through  a  crack 
In  his  shanty — and  were  wise. 
He  would  hold  the  withered  charm 
High  with  one  long  apelike  arm, 
Muttering,  moaning  as  he  swayed, — 
Till  we  crowded  close  together, 
Hurrying  homeward — yes,  and  prayed ! 

When  the  Autumn  storms  were  brewing 
And  the  trees  were  leaved  with  flame, 
Like  a  lover  to  proud  wooing 
Home  the  Flying  Castle  came ; 

[127] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Master  of  the  Flying  Castle   [CONTINUED] 
Goblins  jigging  in  her  rigging 
Were  the  freezing  flaws  of  spray; 
Every  samphire-bearded  Triton 
Greenly  hailed  her  on  her  way. 
Plunging,  rearing  like  a  stallion 
In  the  trough  and  through  the  crest; 
Bulking  golden  as  a  galleon 
On  the  witchcraft  of  the  West; 
Purple  night  in  all  the  shrouds 
Of  her  tropic-tinted  clouds, 
Till  the  headland  flowered  its  beacon — 
And  the  Fiend  stood  manifest! 
Mumbling  more  and  more  by  fits, 
White  of  eyeball  rolled  askance, 
Worked  the  black's  weird  secret  wits, 
Till  we  feared  and  fled  his  glance, 
Till  one  night  the  dark  infernal 
Ritual  rose  to  dim  nocturnal 
Toil  by  moonlight — oil  and  kindlings — 
And  a  trancelike  moonlight  dance. 
Blood  was  smeared  upon  the  portal. 
(Only  voodoos  understand!) 
Out  of  terror  stark  and  mortal, 
Shriek  on  shriek — a  smothering  hand. 
Then  the  crackling  rose  to  roaring 
And  the  swarms  of  sparks  went  soaring 
And  the  house  flared  like  a  pharos 
To  the  Castle,  close  off  land. 

[128] 


MASTER  OF  FLYING  CASTLE 

The  Master  of  the  Flying  Castle   [CONTINUED] 
Aymar's  face  was  gray  and  shrunken, 
Aymar's  voice  was  but  a  croak, 
Aymar's  eyes  were  charred  and  sunken 
And  they  burned  you,  when  he  spoke; 
Tottering  palsied,  as  if  drunken, 
Through  hushed  streets  he  did  not  see, — 
And  the  Flying  Castle  rotting, 
Sunk  and  sand-filled,  off  the  quay! 


[129] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


DUST  OF  THE  PLAINS 

RAILS  unreeling  past  the  brass  gate-bars, 
Loud-capped  tourists  with  brown  cigars, 
Idle  chatter  and  a  giggling  girl, 
And  the  plains'  dust  rising  whirl  on  whirl — 
Rising  and  spreading  like  eagle   wings, 
Ghostily  hosting  the  redskin  kings! 

A  bed  of  live  coals  the  sunset  sky, 

All  cherry  embers,  pulsed  on  high. 

Mesas  like  giant  buffalo 

Loomed,  like  the  ghosts  of  long  ago. 

And  the  silver  rails  reeled  out,  thinned  far 

From  the  click aclacJcet  of  our  flying  car. 

Oglallas,  Arapahoes,  fighting  Utes 

Wheeled  from  the  shadow'of  the  buttressed  buttes ; 

Painted  Sioux,  Cheyennes,  Shoshones, 

Clinging,  swinging  from  their  piebald  ponies ; 

Squaws  and  tepee-poles  trailing  by 

Through  the  purple  twilight  of  the  flaring  sky. 

Bears'  claws  and  beads  on  twisted  wires, 
Sign  of  the  Seven  Council  Fires, 
War-bonnets  dancing,  feathered  with  flame, 
Out  of  the  golden  dust  they  came, 
[130] 


DUST  OF  THE  PLAINS 

Dust  of  the  Plains   [CONTINUED] 
Trotting,  trotting  their  ancient  trail, 
Lo-hallooing  their  spectral  hail: 

They  that  crouched  ere  our  time  began, 
Smoking  the  pipe  of  Powhatan; 
Kin  of  the  panther,  hawk,  and  snake  : 
Birch  canoes  on  the  moonlit  lake, 
Creeping  death  on  the  forest  path, 
Wind  of  the  desert,  whirling  wrath ! 

Wild  and  vigilant,  stoic,  fierce, 
Circling  the  road  of  the  pioneers ; 
Spirits  of  lightning,  wind,  and  rain, 
And  the  golden  corn  of  the  open  plain; 
Bronzed  hard  riders  with  flying  hair, 
Lords  and  gods  of  the  open  air ! 

Out  of  the  dust,  the  dust  of  the  plain, 
In  phantom  phalanx  they  rise  again; 
Far  from  our  cities  of  stone  and  glass, 
Restless  forever  their  legions  pass; 
Red  Cloud  and  Black  Moon's  silent  braves 
Filling  the  West  like  an  ocean's  waves ! 

Black  stood  the  mesas  against  the  sky, 
Gorges  tossed  back  our  clamoring  cry. 
Back  from  our  track  fled  the  skein  of  rails, 
Binding  the  distance,  bearing  the  mails, 
Winding  the  world  on  steely  thread, 
And  "  Let  me  tell  you — !  "  a  drummer  said. 

[131] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  RACE 

YOUR  pursed  lips  suddenly  sucked  in  a  sound  that 

your  horse 
Leapt  to.     He  tossed  his  head  and  stretched  his 

muzzle, 

Hauling  the  reins,  and  started  off  at  a  canter. 
Riding  astride  in  your  heavy  McClellan  saddle, 
With  straight  flat  back — in  white   shirtwaist  and 

high  white  stock 
And  black  cocked  hat — you  wavered  against  the 

hills, 

On  that  broad  white  road,  a  clear,  clean  flame  to  me. 
Blowing  into  the  glory  of  the  sun 
Over  the  marshes. 


Caleppit — caleppit — caleppit ! 
The    hoofs    of    my    horse    rang    out    in    suddec 

pursuit 

Little  puffs  of  dust  like  shots  from  gnomish  rifles 
Followed  your  horse's  flying  heels.     The  road 
Rose  and  fell  before  us,  as  over  a  ridge 
By  a  ranch  we  clattered,  and  slanted  around  a  curve 
Where  a  sheep-dog  barked  from  a  byre.    The  high 

sun  moved 
Following  us. 

[132] 


THE  RACE 

The  Race  [CONTINUED] 

I  saw  you  sling  your  quirt 
Lightly  over  the  flank  of  the  reaching  roan, 
And  the  easy  cradle-motion  beneath  me  told 
How  my  horse  was  nearing  a  run. 

The  wind  from  the  Straits 
Came  slashing  into  our  faces.     The  dusty  road, 
Hard  under  hoof,  racketed  with  our  flight. 
A  dooryard  fluttered  orange  poppies.     A  team 
Drew  into  the  dusty,  bitten  border  grass 
To  w^atch  us  by.     A  winding  herd  of  cows 
Stopped  to  stare  from  a  mounded  hill,  in  the  cloak- 
spread  shadow 

Of  crooked  live-oaks.  Out  on  that  strip  of  steel, 
Beyoi  d  the  marshes,  some  veering  red-brown  sails 
Of  Portuguese  fishermen  made  for  a  ramshackle 

pier. 

The  hills,  like  a  humping  school  of  porpoises, 
Kept  pace  with  us  on  the  left,  and  luring  white 
The  road  ran  on  before. 

A  stretch  of  sand 

Muffled  the  hoofs,  and  seemed  to  check  us.    Then 
Caleppit — caleppit — caleppit!  again.     And  neither 

gaining     .    .    . 
Pursuer,  pursued,  and  all  a  flowing  illusion ! 

You  rode  in  a  cloud,  and  I  in  a  cloud.    We  moved 
Like  the  wistful-tingeing  sunlight  of  afternoon 
That  glinted  far  out  on  the  slowly-turning  wings 

[133] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Race   [CONTINUED] 

Of  an  inland-drifted  gull.     And  high  and  still 
A  dark  hawk  hovered.     Our  eyes,  astare  with  speed. 
Dilated  into  a  bright  indifferent  sky. 

And  then  you  pulled  on  the  reins,  and  I  tugged, 

and  the  horses, 

Snorting  and  sweating,  were  wrestled  back  to  a  trot 
And  we  laughed  and  ambled  along  in  companionship 
While  I  was  thinking,  "  I  wonder  if  she  is  the 

One?" 

And  you,  perhaps,  "  I  really  wonder  if  he ?  " 

Both    meanwhile    talking    scattered    half-chaffing 

things, 
One  of  your  leather  gauntlets  busied  aboi .!;  your 

hair, 

I  fumbling  in  my  khaki  coat  for  a  pipe, 
Each  in  youth's  calm  pursuit 
Of  a  magnificent  and  mateless  dream! 


[134] 


THE  VOYAGE 


THE  VOYAGE 

MY  father  came  to  me  across  the  grass. 
Seating  himself  in  a  chair  of  Chinese  straw 
His  clever  eyes  peered  at  me  askance, 
Mutely  appraising. 

"  You  think  you  wish  to  go?  "  he  suddenly  said. 

I  munched  at  pepper  berries. 

The  sun  sloped  on  the  summer  afternoon. 

The  fountain  trickled. 

The  leaves  of  my  book  stirred  idly. 

I  said,  "  I'll  go !  "     I  got  upon  my  feet. 

Moonlight    that    night    had    something    more    to 

say 

Than  for  long,  O  long! 
The  California  house,  beloved  and  rambling 
Held   games    and    meals    and    reading,   wood-fires 

crackling, 
Familiar  voices 
Arguing  kindly 

And  dreams — but — the  dream  of  dreams — ! 

[135] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Voyage   [CONTINUED] 

High  in  my  moonlit  room  I  lay,  star-haunted. 

I  pondered  also  the  look  in  my  father's  eyes. 

The  engines  tramp  and  stamp   from  the  narrow 

alleyway 

Between  my  stateroom  and  the  malodorous  galley 
Of  the  big  rhythmically-quivering  Army  Transport. 
The  galley-gang,  whose  chief  is  a  coal-black  negro 
Fit  for  a  fez  in  any  Soudanese  regiment, 
Splash   and    clatter   the   dishes   and   jabber   their 

jocularity. 

Washed  for  supper,  I  cross  from  the  door  to  the 

rail, 

Roll  a  smoke  from  small  brown  fluttering  papers 
And  watch  grape-colored  water  frothing  by 
Where  the  flashing  log 
Trails  and  leaps  like  a  flying-fish. 
Elbow  to  elbow  along  the  rail — 
Coal-passers,  engineers,  non-coms — and  I ! 

Next  me  is  "  Chuck,"  his  cheerful  full-moon  face 

Florid,  aglisten.     Beefy  of  bulk  is  he, 

A  comic  fat  boy — truly,  hard  as  nails. 

He  is  anxious  to  prove  that  to  you,  anxious  to  show 

That   his    genial    views    are   backed    by    excellent 

brawn. 

He  wears  his  cap  one  side  and  his  mouth  one  side. 
He  struts  a  trifle,  swinging  his  big  pink  arms. 
[136] 


THE  VOYAGE 

The  voyage   [CONTINUED] 

He  has  straw-colored  hair  and  freckles,  and  mops 

his  neck 

And  looks  you  over,  and  blurts  a  question,  and  grins, 
And  vents  his  airy  soul  and  expressive  slang 
On  the  building  sunset  sky. 

I  sit  at  mess 

On  the  right  of  the  stocky  ferocious  second  mate. 

(As  to  face  and  voice — his  heart 

Is  as  soft  as  the  puddled  butter!)     "  Well,  young 

fellah, 
Got  yer  braces  hitched  to  climb  the  mainmast — 

huh?" 
"  They  got  one  pipe  aboard  this  boat!  "     "  What's 

that?  " 
"It's  that  Deck  Yeoman's  job!"     "Well,  y'see, 

when  I 
Was  just  that  green—"  ..."  Yeah,  I  told  the 

Chief,  but  he — " 
"What's   she   done   today?      Two-forty?"    .    .    . 

"  Pass  the  spuds  !  " 

Grinning,  in  some  unease,  I  sand  my  coffee, 
Unclog  the  condensed-milk  can, 
And  plunge  into  floury  biscuits  and  corn-beef  hash. 

In  the  murmurous,  melancholy 
Star-hung  evening  of  the  Pacific  Ocean, 
With  the  ship  bowling,  passengers  strolling  above, 
My  clerk-jobs  done  for  the  day,  and  the  little  eyes 

[137] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Voyage   [CONTINUED] 

Of  our  cigarettes  atwinkle  through  purple  velvet 

The  goo-goos  for'ard  tune  their  mandolines, 

They  tremor  our  lazy  dreams 

With  the  flickering  twinkle-tinkle  of  mandolines. 

On  the  upper  deck  the  passengers — white  moth; 

or  stalking  ghosts — 
Turn  and  clot  by  the  rail. 
Or  the   ship's   phonograph   starts   with  a  raucou; 

burr, 

(Lugged  down  from  the  saloon.) 
It  whirrs  to  the  nasal  yowl  of  a  popular  song. 
It  erupts  barbaric  black-face  dialogue, 
Flinging  brazen  badinage  at  the  big  white  moon 
That  splashes  the  vast  dark  sea  with  silver  coins 
The  flying  smoke  blows  backward  from  our  stacki 
In  writhing  patterns. 
Beneath,  the  deep-shadowed  deck 
Is  blanched  as  white  as  bone. 

Cliffs  and  cliffs  rising  out  of  the  sea 

In  the  weeping  dawn. 

Low  cliffs,  far  cliffs,  a  strange  coast  lifting; 

Shouts  of  sunrise — that  first  enchanted  harbor! 

Sleek  brown  boys  dive  like   shimmering   fish   fo 

coins. 
Shouts  and  banging  trucks  concatenate  gangplanl 

clatter. 
Stores    shoot   out   on    the   wharves.       Diaphanou 

dresses  and  laughter 

[138] 


THE  VOYAGE 

The  Voyage   [CONTINUED] 

And  starchy  white  fill  the  passenger-deck  and  the 

gang-way. 

I  stretch  my  legs  on  the  dock,  with  the  hurly-burly 
Ramping  around  me  in  hot  and  dizzy  sunlight. 
I  work,  and  the  itching  sweat  is  in  my  eyes, 
But  the  sun  is  in  my  heart. 

I  checked  freight  in  Manila. 
Perched  on  the  canvas  cover  of  a  hatch, 
Watching  the  bales  swing  outboard,  and  the  boxes, 
Or  sneezing  down  in  the  hold 
In  a  golden  shaft  of  dusty  sunlight, 
While  the  natives  jabbered, 

I  checked  and  checked  the  freight,  and  surrepti 
tiously 
Scribbled  verses,  and  checked  the  freight  again. 

"  Chuck,"  Lord,  "  Chuck,"  you  almost  burst  my 

ribs, 

Thin  as  I  am,  and  nearly  split  the  sides 
Of  that  rickety  caromata  we  grandly  hired. 
(But  no  one  walks  !) 
Before  us  our  withered  brown  driver's  nightshirt 

flapped 

As  he  squatted  nearly  upon  his  pony's  rump. 
Our    two-wheeled    chariot    rattled    with    amazing 

speed 
For  the  size  of  that  pony ! 

[139] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Voyage   [CONTINUED] 

Remember    the    cock-fight    we    saw;    the    horrible 

messes 

They  sold  outside,  for  a  snack ;  the  gabble-gabble 
Of  contestants,  umpires,  backers ;  the  segregation 
Of  seats,  the  unbearable  odors,  the  whirring  birds 
Slicing  each  other  with  twinkling  spurs,  fluff-ruffed 
With  peckishness  ? 

And  the  gawping  beaten  bird 
Flopping  in  blood  on  the  sawdust ! 

Remember  the  night  our  driver  drove  us  out 
Far  into  damp  deep-foliaged  moonlit  country, — 
Slipped  down  to  fix  the  harness,  and  we  got  ready 
For    an    owl-like    whistle,    for    bandits    from    the 

jungle? 

Bandits  ?     Bolo-men  with  butcher-knives ! 
It  was  only  the  harness  though.    A  piece  of  string 
Had  busted ! 

Do  you  remember  the  Chinese  shops 
Still  lit  and  doing  business  round  by  dawn, 
Narrow  booths  with  flickering  jets  of  glare 
Flinging    high    shadows    behind    the    bronze-like 

figures 

That  sat  or  shuffled  within,  whose  slanted  eyes 
Held  centuries  ?    And  the  stately  old  walled  city, 
The  drowsing  Bridge  of  Spain? 

And,  "  Chuck,"  do  you  remember 

[140] 


THE  VOYAGE 

The  Voyage   [CONTINUED] 

The  faces  behind  the  lattices  in  those  mysterious 

houses 

Our  driver  thought  we  meant, — that  sailor  reeling 
Across  the  road,  shaking  his  fist  and  cursing 
"  Robbery !  "  at  the  wink  of  a  closing  door? 

Eternal  rain  on  the  Pasig, 

Eternal  mournful  rain;  and  then  one  night 

The  band  on  the  luneta,  among  the  open  carriages, 

Soothed  our  blistered  souls  with — Sousa's  marches ! 

But  ah,  the  bells  and  the  boats  and  the  lights  of  the 

launches, 
The  bulk  of  big  ships  in  the  darkness,  the  scurry 

of  sampans, 
My  breathless  embrace  of  a  dream  as  we  smoothly 

glided 
Into  Nagasaki  harbor, — 

0  the  swish  of  our  rickshaws,  the  racing  rickshaw 

men, 

The  shops  like  a  Fair,  like  a  jeweled  peacock- fan 
Waved  on  a  night  alight  with  Arabian  visions, — 
The  ludicrous  things  we  bought  at  the  little  booths ! 

All  day  I  saw  them  coaling. 

1  saw  the  wonderful  unfaltering  ease 

With  which  a  basket  mounts  from  hand  to  hand 
Of  stringy  native  and  small  brown  native  woman, 
An  endless  chain  of  purely  primitive  labor 

[141] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Voyage   [CONTINUED] 

All  through  the  time  of  siesta. 

I  remember  the  little  children  filling  baskets, 

The  little  brown  children  scampering  round  the  cas- 

coes 

Filled  with  coal. 
And  I  remember 
That  Irish  quartermaster  who  yarned  of  the 

Yangtze 

He  had  sailed  on  a  battleship,  and  the  Hoangho. 
One  night,  under  a  davit, 
He  told  us,  and  showed  us  a  pasteboard  box  he 

carried 

Filled  with  a  set  of  dragon-patterned  china 
For  his  mother  in  San  Francisco. 

I  remember  the  half-doped  derelict 

Who  stopped  a  few  of  us  going  ashore  one  night, 

Pleading  to  only  be  smuggled  back  to  the  States. 

The  Ancient  Mariner !     He  used  to  be 

A  gob.     He  called  himself  "  a  Navy  man/' 

Drink  had  done  him.     Part  way  sober  at  least 

He  had  flunkeyed  Chinamen,  played  in  a  vaudeville 

troupe 

Of  Japanese,  and  drifted  back  to  the  port 
Crawling  through  rubbish  and  refuse  for  a  living, 
Drained  by  disease  and  the  climate,  maudlinly 
Sobbing  for  home,  for  home. 

Harbor  waters  of  dream,  where  even  tragedy 
Turned  fantastic! 
[142] 


THE  VOYAGE 

The  Voyage   [CONTINUED] 

0  were  dying  only  the  proud  advance  of  a  ship 
Into  mirrored  starlight,  to  which  descend  the  walls 
And  streets  of  a  moon-white  city  whose  phantom 

piers 
Dance  with  brilliant  lanterns  of  salutation! 

1  should  find  my  florid  Pythias,  honest  "  Chuck/' 
A  roustabout  of  those  eternal  quays, 

Heaving  a  cask  athwart  a  doughty  hip 

To  roll  it  into  the  shed.     I  can  hear  him  sing 

"  Hey,  cul!    Who  let  you  in?     They  do  get  keer- 

less. 
Some  job  I've  got  here — hey?" 

And  I,  why  I 

Would  draw  and  fill  a  small  brown  cigarette 
With  Bull,  and  twist  the  end,  and  proffer  it; 
And  he  would  stick  it  in  a  beaded  face 
And  scratch  a  match  on  his  pants. 

So,  after  the  day  and  the  job, 

In  a  twilight  of  blue  tobacco, 

Under  golden  awnings, 

Gazing  over  the  harbor  to  the  white  night-waking 
city 

Where  lazy  bells  had  tinkled  in  weed-grown  court 
yards 

Through  the  sweltering  afternoon, — 

Where,  in  dim  old  cloisters  the  dark  old  Spanish 
paintings, 

Cracked  and  smeared  with  age,  somberly  dream  of 
scourgings 

[143] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Voyage  [CONTINUED] 

And    fast    and    penance    and    strange    ineffable 

vision, — 

Gazing  thither,  or  past  the  spectral  sea-wall 
Where  sea-birds  flash  and  settle  in  the  sunset., 
Where  smoke  on  the  bright  horizon 
Stands  like  a  spire, 

The  spire  of  a  sunken  city,  of  jasper  walls, 
Of  life  one  tumult  of  perilous  fond  adventure — 
Unending  glimmering  dream  of  starry  youth ! — 
Then  would  we  muse  and  remember,  truly  remem 
ber? 
Aye,  "  Chuck/'  indeed! 


[144] 


ALONG  THE  EMBARCADERO 


ALONG  THE  EMBARCADERO 

ALONG  the  Embarcadero 

By  stanchion,  plank  and  rope, 

The  masts  and  crosstrees  lifted 

And  funnels  at  the  slope. 

The  wharfinger  offices, 

The  rattling  winch  and  crane 

Were  struck  with  dazzling  sunlight 

That  dreamed  of  ancient  Spain. 


Along  the  Embarcadero 
The  Slav  and  Swede  and  Finn 
Tried  many  a  rotgut  liquor 
At  many  a  sordid  inn, 
Yet  ghosts  of  earringed  seamen 
Crowded  the  tangled  spars 
Above  the  scattering  clanging 
Of  the  Belt  Line  cars. 


Tramp-schooner,  bark  and  steamer, 
Both  passenger  and  freight, 
Beguiled  the  boyish  dreamer 
Beyond  the  Golden  Gate — 

[145] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Along  the  Embarcadero  [CONTINUED] 
Alaska  or  New  Zealand, 
Siberia  or  Japan — 
Oh,  seas  forever  singing 
To  the  sailor-man ! 

Along  the  Embarcadero 
House-flags  from  East  and  West 
The  goddess  San  Francisco 
Has  gathered  to  her  breast. 
Along  the  Eastern  seaboard 
The  wistful  sunsets  say 
"  Man,  when  are  you  returning 
To  San  Francisco  Bay  ?  " 


[146] 


THE  CITY 


THE  CITY 

To  Robert  H.  Davis 

I  WENT  forth  to  sing  the  city,  today's  city — 

The  blank  stone  sphinx,  the  monster  search-light- 
eyed, 

The  roaring  mill  where  gods  grind  without  pity, 
The  falling  torrent,  the  many-colored  tide. 

Granite  and  steel  upflung  became  my  fountains, 
Cunningly  reared  and  held  as  by  a  spell. 

Lost  in  colossal  stone,  my  newer  mountains, 
I  wandered  witlessly  through  miracle. 

And  snared  in  tiny  toils  both  frail  and  idle 
I  lost  my  wonder  as  I  had  lost  my  stars, 
Though  here   a  mammoth   heaved  no   man   might 

bridle, 

A   terrible   symphony   rolled   through    crashing 
bars. 

But  small  and  obvious  life  fogged  every  wonder 
And   itching  needs   and   each   small   thirst   and 

lust. 

Over  me  and  about  me  roared  the  thunder 
Of  the  city's  heart;  I  trafficked  with  its  dust. 

[147] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  City   [CONTINUED] 

Yet  beyond  Babylon  its  ways  were  regal; 

Even  Jerusalem  its  dreams  outsoared. 
Loins  of  the  lion  and  splendor  of  the  eagle, 

Where  swarming  vermin  hailed  it  god  and  lord; 

Where  hardly  one  could  touch,  save  to  defile  it, 
The  dream  phantasm  it  spread  aloft  at  night; 

Where  men  snared  men,  and  made  all  men  revile 

it, 
Save  in  its  moments  of  bewildering  light. 

Yet  men  had  thought  and  raised  and  poised  its 
splendor, 

And  fed  the  torrents  of  its  living  veins, 
And  had  fallen  prone  before  it  in  surrender, 

Seeing  its  awful  being  repay  their  pains. 

A  living  being,  but  blind,  where  all  misprision 
Flourished  and  fattened,  and,  lashed  as  by  a 

scourge, 
Flowed    fear-struck    crowds — yet    dupes    of    some 

strange  vision 
As  on  the  instant  ready  to  emerge, 

But  ever  foiled — and  still  forever  trembling 
Just  past  the  reach  of  mind,  the  urge  of  will ; 

Sum  of  all  jaded  aims  and  drab  dissembling, 
Something  unbuilded,  to  be  builded  still ! 
[148] 


THE  CITY 

The  City   [CONTINUED] 

So  once  again,  almost  against  desire, 

The  appalling  city  unsealed  the  eyes  she  sealed, 
Until  her  darkest  streets  ran  weltering  fire 

For  thought  of  love  at  point  to  be  revealed. 

So  all  their  eyes  are  fixed  on  mine  forever, 
Eyes  of  dark  pain,  unfathomable  will  I 

Something  unbuilded,  to  be  builded — never? 
Something  unbuilded,  to  be  builded  still ! 


[149] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


WHEN  THE  CATERER  SANG  OF  HIS 
WEDDING 

To  Sinclair  Lewis 

To  a  crumbly  wine-tanged  writhing  of  macaroons, 

A  tarantella  of  dwarf  green  anchovies, 

The  rainbow-bubbled  surf  from  claret  seas 

Under  delicate  confectionary  moons, 

Where  aspic  islands  quivered  with  white  whipped 

cream, 
Flung  high  the  dancing  dream. 


Fluttering  round  brown  quails  with  crisped  skin 
And  gilt-foiled  bottles  aslant  in  glittering  ice, 
Florentine  gravies,  sauces  bold  with  spice, 
Scrolled  rolls — all  conscious  courses  suave  as  sin — 
Came  the  white  breeze  of  napkin  seeking  chin, 
The  undermunch  so  flattering  and  so  scorning, 
And  a  hint  of  phantasmagorias  to  begin 
In  the  very  early  morning! 


The  tart  black- j  ellied  beads  of  caviare, 
White  sleek  asparagus  in  mayonnaise, 
Stuffed  peppers  stifled  from  their  natural  blaze 
By  celery  chips;  striped  trout  with  sauce  tartare; 
[150] 


WHEN  THE  CATERER  SANG 

When  the  Caterer  Sang   [CONTINUED] 
Brindled  potatoes  to  make  the  palate  burn, 
Olives  and  almonds  salted  crisp  and  thin, 
Black  coffee  coifed  with  neufchatel — a  djinn 
Risen  from  the  silver  urn — 

In  animate  masque  these  jigged  upon  a  frieze 
Where  golden  pheasants  mixed  with  sky-blue  trees, 
Then  vanished.    Terrace  by  terrace,  upward  sprang 
White  as  bright  frost,  that  palace  of  glamouries 
Built  to  the  wild  and  golden  god  Meringue. 
Perilous  carven  sweetness  brittly  built, 
With  curlicued  devices  pink  and  gilt, — 
Wizarded  mist  such  as  the  moon  doth  make! 
On  solider  foundation  fitly  planted 
Where  now  a  gleaming  knife  descended,  slanted, 
And  portioned  melting  slabs  of  angel  cake.    .    .    . 

Thus,  on  an  evening  when  his  moon  was  blue, 
Since  Ermintrude  had  kissed  him  in  the  dark, 
The  caterer  sang  the  greatest  things  he  knew, 
Dancing  round  Rockbridge  Park! 


[151] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


METAMORPHOSIS— NOT  IN  OVID 

To  Sinclair  Lewis 

To  think  behind  a  bib  or  in  a  crib 

May  lurk  some  modernized  Sennacherib! 

Awed  saucer  eyes  and  bland  uncertain  smile, 
Will  they  gull  thousands  in  a  little  while? 

That  imperturbable  art  of  blowing  bubbles 
To  stoop  to  diagnosing  liver  troubles! 

That  twinkling  candor  and  artless  lurching  gait, 
Lost,  lost  in  ministerial  robes  of  state! 

0  golemn  babies,  so  absurd  and  antic, 
My  silent  apprehension  drives  me  frantic. 

Away  with  horoscope  and  astrolabe! 

1  shall  not  read  the  stars  for  any  babe. 

Yet — laurelled  Caesar,  in  short  dress  and  socks, 
Site,  fatly  chuckling,  toppling  building-blocks. 

Kings,  dustmen,  clowns,  Napoleon,  Scaramouch, 
Chew  cap-strings  from  each  blanketed  barouche. 
[152] 


METAMORPHOSIS— NOT  IN  OVID 

Metamorphosis — Not  in  Ovid  [CONTINUED] 
Through  their  contemplative  fixed  scrutiny 
The  world's  weird  unknown  future  winks  at  me ! 


[153] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  HERETIC 

"  THEN/'  said  my  Angel,  "  I  leave  you !  " 
"  So !  "  whispered  my  Devil,  "  I  come ! 

But  my  lips  framed  no  regretting; 
I  stood  struck  dumb. 

With  pathos  the  angels  would  grieve  you; 

With  threats  the  devils  would  fright. 
Man  travails  within,  begetting 

A  god  of  light. 

Now  though  all  Heaven  bereft  me 
Of  flowers  and  music's  sound, 

Now  though  all  Hell,  to  win  me, 
Flamed  red  around, 

Only  one  tiling  was  left  me, 

One  only  since  time  began : 
To  speak  the  truth  that  was  in  me 

And  play  the  man. 


[154] 


THE  LONELY 


THE  LONELY 

YOU'RE  away,  and  best  away ;  yes,  it's  best  for  you, 

Out  in  a  white  and  a  trim  ship  on  the  salty  blue. 

O  you're  a  happy  man,  sailor !  May  all  that's  good 
betide 

Your  landfall  and  your  home-coming  and  the  har 
bor  where  you  ride.  .  .  . 

Let  you  forget  the  ghosts  that  walked  when  the  fog 
was  overside! 

And  you're  a  jog  by  hill  and  bog  and  striding  up  the 

scarp 
Where  the  wind  has  famous  trees  to  flog  and  harps 

an  iron  harp. 
Your  valley  lamp,  your  evening  star,  your  white 

street  in  the  moon — 
May  the  house  you  seek  have  its  door  ajar,  and 

she  stand  in  it,  soon.     .    .    . 
Let  you  forget  the  graveyard  wall  and  the  spectres' 

rigadoon! 

And  I'm  away  in  jeweled  caves,  wishing  myself  as 

well, 
On  Eastern  isles  the  tide-turn  laves,  bound  by  a 

master-spell ; 

[155] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

The  Lonely   [CONTINUED] 

And  I'll  not  shiver  for  ghosts  or  graves,  nor  knock 

my  pipe  and  brood — 
But  when  the  blood  of  the  heart  craves,  and  cries 

and  finds  no  food 
Lonelier  far   than   earth   or  sea   the   mind's   vain 

solitude! 


[156] 


ENIGMA 


ENIGMA 

IMPERISHABLE  trust 

Even  in  the  vagrant  wind  that  blows  the  dust 

Painting  the  sunset  to  our  clouded  gaze ; 

Even  in  the  stone  that  is 

Compact  of  verities 

We  cannot  know,  or,  if  we  know,  despise ! 

Strange  limits,  laws  as  strange 

Of  the  eternal  prison  where  we  range 

Traversing  but  bewildered  by  its  days ! 

Think,  and  be  filled  with  awe ; 

The  very  breath  you  draw 

If  on  this  wise,  how  strangely  on  this  wise! 


[157] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


RENCONTRE 

No,  I  am  not  so  cold  as  that.     I  would 

Not  have  you  read  my  mind.    And  that  is  all.    Let 

be! 

No,  I  am  not  so  bold  as  that.     I  could 
Not  grasp  and  soil  your  spirit  shining  free. 
And  something  in  your  own  I  would  not  have 
Fasten  on  mine  and  feed.     For  something  comes 

between. 
And  so  this  is  as  other  things  have  been. 


O  brilliant  broken  lights  of  life !     I  thrill 
To  your  allure.    Awhile  I  shiver  in  your  blaze. 
O  still  unspoken  heights,  ere  the  fixed  will 
Stabs  with  its  blinding  beam  the  drowsy  haze ! 
Then  comes  the  shudder  and  the  little  laugh 
And  we  are  gladly  free  of  the  decreed  unseen — 
And  this  time  is  as  other  times  have  been. 


Admitting,  I  accept  my  loss.    We  seek 

A  different  shrine,  although  set  in  the  same  cliff- 
face. 

Fitting  the  purpose  is.    We  are  not  weak 

Nor  rancorous  of  each  other  in  the  race. 
[158] 


RENCONTRE 

Rencontre  [CONTINUED] 

This  trifling  time  may  yet  be  balm  to  salve 

The  sharp  and  sudden  wounds  with  which  all  time 

is  keen; 
So  let  this  be  as  other  times  have  been ! 

So  let  us  smile  and  pass.     And  if  you  go 
Through  death  to  life,  or  from  your  puzzled  life 

to  death, 

(Knowing  as  little  as  the  wisest  know), 
At  least  for  me  you  draw  no  troubled  breath ; 
And  I  shall  have  a  peaceful  epitaph — 
Who  might  in  Ilium  have  gazed  on  Helen  queen, — 
Save  that  this  is  as  other  things  have  been ! 


[159] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

To   have  been   far   places,  yes  that   indeed   were 

merry ; 
To  have  seen  immortal  faces, — ah  yes,  that  were 

well; 
White  steeds  in  golden  traces  and  golden  chariots 

burning, 
Red  cap  and  laureled  column  and  a  crazed  world 

turning 
Round  your  world-applauded  triumph — a  stirring 

thing  to  tell  ; 

Yes,  yes,  that  were  all  very 
Well! 

There's  many  a  plain  and  many  a  mountain,  many 
a  city, 

Many    a     glittering    epoch, — O     yes,    that    may 
be; 

But  all  the  hearts  exalted,  and  all  the  spirits  shat 
tered 

That  burned  like  fields  afire,  have  not  so  greatly 
mattered 

Though  a  mighty  stir  they  made  as  they  strove  to 
make  free; 

And  if  that  be  so,  God  pity 

Me! 

[160] 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

The  Philosopher   [CONTINUED] 

For  I  feel  as  if  ionight  it  were  all  a  mere  phantasm 
A  flowing  of  blue  clouds  and  of  dim-colored  shapes ; 
A  game  of  curious  symbols  that  shine  and  lose 

their  meaning 
'Twixt  the  light  that  blinds  them   and  the  dark 

that's  screening, 
In  a  fiery  fitful  twilight  where  we  moil  but  none 

escapes 

Save  at  last  where  the  dark  chasm 
Gapes. 

Leave  then  your  talk  of  towns,  talk  of  crowns  and 

wreathes  and  kisses ; 
Sit  you  silent  in  the  starlight  where  the   leaves 

whisper  low; 
It  is  strange  enough,  at  least,  that  our  minds  are 

still  turning 

Our  eyes  still  asearching,  our  pulses  still  burning! 
Chink  like  coins  in  the  hand  all  your  memories  of 

old  woe ; 

That  turns  them  into  blisses, 
You  know! 


[161] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


FRIENDS 

To  Aims  McMichael  Hoyt 

WALKING  a  lonely  street,  I  thought, 

One  thing  warms  more  than  fire 

Or  wine,  and  is  not  sold  or  bought 

At  any  man's  desire, 

And,  unlike  love,  not  wholly  of 

Passion  too  near  despair — 

Yet  walls  around  a  sacred  ground 

And  builds  a  secret  stair. 


Friends — that  can  set  the  mind  aglow 

With  their  unfading  light 

And  steel  the  soul  at  overthrow 

Against  the  ceaseless  fight, 

And,  beautiful  beyond  men's  worth, 

Walk  on  the  walls  of  Time, 

Because  in  dearth  they  turned  our  earth 

To  mirth  and  ringing  rhyme. 


I'll  add  it  to  the  mysteries 
That  start  on  every  side. 
Whoever  knows  and  keeps  the  keys 
Whereto  all  heaven  swings  wide 
[162] 


FRIENDS 

Friends  [CONTINUED] 

Through  hours  that  pass — as  in  a  glass 
Pass  golden  clouds  and  slow — 
He  gave  our  friends  for  certain  ends, 
Far  greater  than  we  know. 


[163] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


TO  MY  FATHER 


You  rhymed  like  Lear  for  us  when  we  were  small. 
Our  walks  with  you  were  full  of  things  mysterious 
Made  magic  by  your  twinkle  and  half-drawl, 
Because  we  could  not  tell  if  you  were  serious. 
You  rose  to  some  occasions  quite  imperious, 
"  Explained  "  the  jokes  to  us  in  comic  papers, 
And  read  us  Russian  fairy-tales,  the  shapers 
Of  visions  grim,  fantastic,  and  delirious. 

You  laughed  at  us  and  teased  us  and  regarded 
Our  mediaeval  lives  with  understanding; 
And  often  there  were  monsters  that  you  warded 
Away  with  words  unique  and  mirth  commanding. 
We'd  hang  across  the  landing  till  we'd  fall, 
Waiting  to  hear  your  step  down  in  the  hall. 


"  Well,  bears !  "  or  "  How  is  Little  John  tonight?  " 
"  The  man  who  made  this  match,  my  son,  must  be 

a—" 

"  Oh,  Father,  you'll  not  please  turn  on  the  light 
Until  we  hear  what  happened  to  Gackelea !  " 

[164] 


TO  MY  FATHER 

To  my  Father  [CONTINUED] 

"Dark?  Nonsense!  Read?  A  very  strange 
idea !  " 

The  leather  chair  at  last  denounced  this  attitude, 

And,  coiled  at  various  lengths,  we  breathed  beati 
tude 

Before  some  world's-end  castle  on  Mount  Moria. 

There,  at  endearing  sprawl  that  never  cost  your 

True  dignity  the  loss  of  one  iota, 

We  would  regard  you  from  precarious  posture, 

Squirming  with  exclamation  points,  or  stilly 

As  a  hushed  mouse,  while  thrillingly  you'd  quote  a 

Rhyme,  or  wake  fairies  in  a  tiger-lily. 

in 

Time,  the  dark  whale,  spouts   blithely   from  his 

spiracle 

A  jet  of  memory  that  makes  glad  the  sun. 
In  you  the  intuition  for  true  fun 
Wrought  us  the  breathless  and  quotidian  miracle. 
You  taught  us  words  like  these  with  pomp  satirical, 
And  I  have  but  to  listen  and  I  hear 
Your  voice  croon,  "  Shed  no  tear,  oh  shed  no  tear !  " 
Swayed  between  the  ironic  and  the  lyrical. 

Hard  lines  in  Caesar,  equations  in  quadratics, 
Charades,  acrostics,  walks  that  made  us  pant 
And  sit  on  stones  because  our  breath  was  scant 
And  our  legs  short;  the  furbishings  from  attics, 

[165] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

To  my  Father  [CONTINUED] 

Furniture,  daily  bread,  child-grief  that  stings, 

You  took,  transformed,  and  made  amazing  things. 


Yet  you  have  looked,  even  as  all  men  must, 
On  the  Medusa,  and  looked  down  her  eyes. 
Now  I  perceive  it,  in  my  time  made  wise 
Though  not  with  half  the  valor  or  the  trust; 
Your  spirit  blue  as  steel  unflecked  by  rust, 
Your  mind  forever  snapping  dragon-flies 
Whimsical  at  their  sheen,  their  sting  of  lies 
But  relish,  where  so  soon  all  things  are  dust. 

You  held  life  to  us  like  a  twirling  prism 
Nor  flinched  a  facet  with  your  curious  gaze. 
You  said,  "  Yes,  so  it  sparkles,  so  it  sways." 
You  hated,  loved,  and  smiled.     No  syllogism 
Had  said  the  last.     All  ways  you  cast  your  looks 
And  walked  the  world  and  read  a  thousand  books. 

v 

You  had  the  touch,  the  gesture,  the  exact 
Quick  divination  for  a  thing  well-said. 
Sometimes  I  only  find  in  what  you  read 
To  us  your  overtones,  that  drove  the  fact 
Of  greatness  home  with  thrust,  that  thrid  close- 
packed 

And  marvelous  Browning  with  a  tongue  in  cheek, 
Thrilled  to  him  on  his  heights,  enjoyed  his  Greek, 
And  so  took  all  the  gods,  with  spacious  tact. 
[166] 


TO  MY  FATHER 

To  my  Father  [CONTINUED] 

Your  detestation  inchoate  Carlyle 

Turned  Prussian-blue;  your  weakness,  Stevenson. 

("  They  "  call  it  weakness !)     In  the  lucky-bag 

Of  literature  you  angled,  for  a  while 

Parceled  the  patchwork,  when  the  day  was  done 

Knew  every  banner  from  every  bogus  rag. 

VI 

You  found  a  quartz-stone,  Duty,  and  you  found 
A  white  lamp,  Truth,  and  Honor,  a  sweet  fire, 
Whose  ways  are  up  the  jagged  crags  that  tire 
But  whose  domain  has  azure  for  a  ground 
Where  trumpets  snarl  no  more  but  golden  sound 
Hangs  rapt  like  the  great  ending  of  a  song. 
There  you  have  peers.    There  all  your  years  belong 
Who  took  that  road,  slung  with  a  magic  lyre. 

Your  hands  would  never  touch  it,  but  in  shade 
Of  your  proud  thoughts,  your  dreams,  to  childrens' 

ears 

What  men  will  never  know,  but  the  heart  hears 
And  sees  bright-meteored  mount  the  frowning  years, 
All  of  itself,  all  of  itself  it  played 
That  high  fantastic  tune  your  spirit  made ! 


[167] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


TRICKSTERS 

To  Vachel  Lindsay 

I  AM  bewildered  still  and  teased  by  elves 
That  cloud  about  me  even  through  city  streets. 
One  sings  a  stave  and  one  a  dream  repeats, 
One,  crueller,  in  some  old  resentment  delves. 
I  am  aware  they  are  my  other  selves, 
Yet  to  what  dazzling  vision  each  entreats, 
Casting  a  glamour  over  shams  and  cheats, 
Ennobling  cant,  buzzing  by  tens  and  twelves ! 

So  then  my  smiling  grieves  the  passerby. 
I  strut  in  all  vocations  not  my  own, 
Wearing  the  centuries  like  a  baldric  slung; 
Whilst  shabby  I  gawk  at  this  splendid  I. 
Chronos  and  Momus  through  my  lips  intone, 
Archangels,  heroes,— rascals  yet  unhung! 


[168] 


BEING  CURIOUS 


BEING  CURIOUS 

To  Stephen 

I  DID  not  think  the  patriarch  would  speak 

But,  as  he  slept,  and  dribbled  at  lip  for  drouth, 

I  stuck  a  salty  olive  in  his  mouth 

Green  with  the  juicy  greenness  of  a  leek. 

He  swayed  a  little  on  his  throne  of  teak 

And  the  fruit  vanished.    An  afreet  from  the  south 

Stood  straight  before  us,  like  as  when  one  vow'th 

Splendor  to  Baal.     My  legs  got  very  weak. 

Yet,  even  so,  I  thought,  he'll  cry — he'll  bid — 
And  there  will  be  a  tablet  raised  to  me ! 
O  grief !    The  patriarch  gestured  with  his  thumb. 
Truth  from  one  more  awed  generation  hid, 
And  I  so  safe  beneath  this  greenlit  sea, 
And  the  unanswered  riddle,  "  Is  he  dumb?  " 


[169] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


O'CONNOR'S  CAFE 

Greenwich  Avenue,  near  Sixth 

WHERE     JOHN    MASEFIELD    AFORETIME     TENDED     BAR 

THEY'LL  have  "  apartments  "  on  the  upper  floors 
And  shops  below,  here  where  the  crossways  meet, 
Where  "  L "  trains  shake  high  trestles  down  the 

street 

And  idle  loungers  lean  from  dirty  doors. 
No  more  some  shrewd-eyed  Bacchus   shakes   and 

pours 

Glittering  decoctions  when  the  Spring  is  sweet 
With  violet  twilight,  or  through  festering  heat 
Of  summer,  while  the  eternal  traffic  roars. 

O'Connor's  passes,  and  that  tall  Bastille 
With  clock-face  ever  owlish  of  late  hours 
Rules  on,  where  once  a  strange  young  sailor  passed 
To  scour  bar  bright-work,  dream  of  nights  at  wheel 
On  vast  dark  seas,  and  to  invoke  such  powers 
As  guard  his  greatness  here  until  the  last. 


[170] 


MENAGERIE 


MENAGERIE 

To  Don  Marquis 

ONE  is  a  beaver  with  a  wrinkled  nose, 

One  is  a  weasel, — and  I  do  declare 

I  see  a  melancholy  small  ant-bear, 

Curled  furriness  that  snuffles  at  its  toes! 

The  wombat  is  both  sleepy  and  morose, 

The  Bengal  tiger-cub  has  such  a  stare 

Of  topaz!     Two  white  lemmings  sit  at  prayer 

With  proper  paws,  superior  to  foes. 

The  taxidermist  with  scissors  at  his  waist 
Enters  my  heart  and  says,  before  them  all, 
(But  then  he  always  waves  a  silver  charm!) 
"  They  should  be  stuffed!  "     I  eye  him  with  dis 
taste. 

My  sins  are  so  bright-eyed  and  warm  and  small, 
The  little  animals  that  mean  no  harm ! 


[171] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


FROM  SPARTA 

YOUR  voice  is  perilous  to  me.    Your  clear 
Unconscious  voice  and  delicate  cameo   face, 
Quaintly  coiled  hair  and  subtly  careless  grace 
Lead  me  too  close  to  quiet  brinks  of  fear. 
Just  for  a  space  my  fire-maned  fancies  rear 
Raked  by  the  snaffle  and  the  grinding  curb. 
Then,  I  sink  back  to  stone,  and  you  disturb 
My  facile  thought  no  more.     But  you  are  dear 
As  the  mysterious  sky,  the  glittering  sea, 
The  ending  of  a  peerless  symphony 
That  very  breath  might  shatter  to  discoid; 
Fragility,  brimmed  with  mesmeric  light, 
Though  held  against  immense  and  starless  night, 
And  sacred  as  the  stillness  round  a  sword. 


[172] 


THE  FOIL 


THE  FOIL 

THANK  God  for  all  the  wrath  of  hypocrites 
That  burnishes  the  blade  of  truth  so  bright ! 
Thank  God  indeed  for  malice,  envy,  spite, 
Fated  to  crown  and  throne  their  opposites ! 
Else  might  we,  for  a  lack  of  babbling  wits, 
Lose  true  comparative  to  judge  that  height 
Where  thunder-crowned,  with  lightning  for  a  light, 
Wild  and  benign  the  winged  archangel  sits. 

Even  his  cup  of  fiery  agony 
Must  fill  with  wine  of  mirth  to  overrun 
When  pismires  urge  on  ants  that  moon  and  sun 
Err  in  an  orbit!    And  so  anew  we  see, 
With  lifted  eyes,  what  things  the  planets  are, 
How  even  all  heaven  can  burn  through  one  pale 
star. 


[173] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 


CHARLES  DARWIN 

To  Henry  Seidel  Canby 

THIS  is  the  soul  who  sought  and  found  new  keys 
To  Life,  and  bade  Man  rise  and  grasp  his  powers; 
Who  wrested  many  a  secret  from  the  flowers 
And  cast  a  shadow  on  bright  hierarchies. 
Patient  to  ponder,  he  mounted  stormy  seas 
Of  bigot  wrath,  met  craft  that  skulks  and  cowers, 
And  searched  laborious  years  and  days  and  hours 
To  link  the  primrose  with  the  Pleiades. 

The  Cordilleras  than  any  church  more  holy 
He  found,  Brazilian  forests  long  adored, 
Turned  to  his  task  of  truth  and  fathered  slowly 
Man's  honest  search,  while  men  cried,  "  God,  our 

Lord!" 

Protesting  still  in  weakness.     This  is  he 
Who  raised  a  temple  to  integrity. 


[174] 


NIGHT 


NIGHT 

To  Christopher  Morley 

LET  the  night  keep 
What  the  night  takes, 
Sighs  buried  deep, 
Ancient  heart-aches, 
Groans  of  the  lover, 
Tears  of  the  lost; 
Let  day  discover  not 
All  the  night  cost! 


Let  the  night  keep 
Love's  burning  bliss, 
Drowned  in  deep  sleep 
Whisper  and  kiss, 
Thoughts  like  white  flowers 
In  hedges  of  May; 
Let  such  deep  hours  not 
Fade  with  the  day! 


Monarch  is  night  y 

Of  all  eldest  things, 
Pain  and  affright, 
Rapturous  wings; 

[175] 


MOONS  OF  GRANDEUR 

Night   [CONTINUED] 

Night  the  crown,  night  the  sword 
Lifted  to  smite. 
Kneel  to  your  overlord, 
Children  of  night ! 


[176] 


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